


Marvelous misadventures of Maeve

by V6ilill



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Aftermath of trauma, Angst and Humor, Child Abuse, Child Dragonborn, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Families of Choice, Gallows Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nature Magic, Random - Freeform, Unreliable Narrator, abuse recovery, aftermath of abuse, canon-typical bigotry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 20,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22523518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V6ilill/pseuds/V6ilill
Summary: What if the Dragonborn was an abused child living in Rorikstead?What would happen if a ten-year-old hero of legend went on adventures?What if Marcurio accidentally got saddled with a wizard kid?And, most importantly, could the Dragonborn domesticate a chaurus?Or: the adventures of the Dragonkid, before and after she is adopted by Marcurio. It's a wild ride.Featuring druid magic, a ninja-sword, convoluted family trees that make everyone in Skyrim related, generous heapings of crack, er, skooma, the priestdom of Dibella (who have absolutely nothing to do with tavern whores!) and Marcurio being really, really unlucky.
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Marcurio, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Britte, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Illia, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Marcurio, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Svana Far-Shield, Orla/Hewnon Black-Skeever
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you are triggered by child abuse, both mental and physical, DO NOT READ!

Hewnon Black-Skeever was not the sort of man to think to hard about his life, but he had recently ruminated rather extensively about how he was in quite the predicament. He had a problem. A large, still-growing problem that was currently ten years old. He called the problem Maeve. It- or, as was diplomatically correct to say, she, was quite the handful. Not the girl herself – Maeve was small and bony enough to hide in any crevice, a wardrobe or dresser was quite enough for her and she was as quiet as a mouse, as all loathsome pests should be if they do not wish to be eradicated – but feeding her. When Orla was with him, Hewnon had gotten by, drinking at the tavern for most of the day – his ~~precious darling~~ old hag had ensured free drinks for him by helping the innkeeper. With something. In fact, Hewnon realized after another tankard of mead, that the reason everyone else in Rorikstead hadn’t kicked him and his ~~beautiful wife~~ hideous scarecrow out was due to most of the town’s important men had had, in Rorik’s own words, “pleasing arrangements” with Orla (whatever that meant. She might’ve knitted them leg warmers for all Hewnon knew. But it hadn’t ever mattered to him – Orla’s arre- arro- arrangements made sure the two of them didn’t have to do much farmwork). And as Hewnon continued to stare into the now-empty tankard, he realized a horrifying truth – he had to either learn picking cabbages and grazing cows, or leave in a hurry.

Ah, but for a man of his finesse, lifting an ax and lobbing off the heads of a few wolves or bandits was nothing difficult – he just had to lift the weapon and swing! The only question was where to put Maeve. Perhaps he could sell her to some unscrupulous farmer or merchant . . . or perhaps to work brothel? No, wait, she was too young for that. Such a shame.

Hewnon heard a creak in the far corner and noticed Maeve holding the door to her cupboard. She looked at him and froze, not running away anymore like she used to when little. For all her stealth and sneaking around she couldn’t even open a cupboard without noise. The man growled and threw his tankard at his daughter. It smacked against her face and rolled down onto the floor without doing any damage. Maeve was still, understanding that her father wasn’t satisfied. Hewnon reluctantly stumbled up from the bench and reached for the broom. Instead, his hands found a bucket and flung it at the girl. She didn’t even flinch when it bounced off her cheek. Hewnon was the one to flinch when the bucket landed with a bang. Since such a situation was, undeniably, completely and utterly wrong, the nord picked up an empty bottle and took shaky steps towards Maeve. Shards of glass soon scattered on the floor, one piece embedded in the girl’s cheek. All was well once again, at least for the moment.

“Pack your things, we’re leaving,” barked Hewnon.

Maeve pulled out the shard and retrieved her blanket and toys. He grabbed his last reserves of mead – two bottles, in total – his ax, a cloak and the last loaf of bread. Within minutes, he was out of the door in the frigid night air with the girl in tow. He was glad his ~~radiant beauty~~ low-life scum hadn’t taken the cloak when she ran away. The two walked on towards Whiterun, the moons illuminating their path. Hewnon sipped from his mead bottle, feeling light-headed and dizzy. It seemed like shapes moved in the distance, some kind of enemies, creatures of evil.

Ah, why did that witch leave? Hewnon was her husband, her lord and master, she was his and she could not deny him! Was she not afraid of him? How dare she! That vile creature had to be held down, otherwise . . . otherwise she would cause harm and misery whenever she went. Those gambling debts he had? That was her, all right. She . . . she, well, cursed him! Bewitched him! It was her fault nobody liked him! She had caused his reputation to plummet like a dead bird! In his drunk paranoia, Hewnon took his ax, looking for enemies. He found none, except for Maeve. It seemed . . . it seemed that his wife had concealed the truth from him – that his daughter . . . was not his! Why else would she have those solid black eyes and unnaturally pale skin? Witchcraft! She . . . she was a witch child! Orla had certainly conceived her spawn from some daedra or vampire, that much was certain!

“You little demon!” Hewnon swung his ax as he swayed and stumbled on his feet “You bastard! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you, unholy monster! I’ll kill you!”

Maeve gasped, her eyes wide in terror, but that only fueled her father’s anger. He wished to end the horror before him, but the very earth itself opposed him as his feet gave way and he fell down. But that vile curse (no doubt Orla’s doing) would not stop him! He would get his way, as he should!

“Die, demon!” he slurred “You are not my child, you _thing_!”

He picked himself up with great difficulty and stumbled towards the child. Tears dripped from the girl’s eyes as she stared at the sharp edge of the ax. Hewnon swung his weapon at Maeve, missing by quite a lot, but the curse didn’t deter him in the slightest. The girl sat still, but not quietly as she usually did. Her nails burrowed into her sides, her eyes wide and gaze empty, shaking uncontrollably. Hewnon kicked his daughter, leaving her sprawled on the ground, then raised his ax.

Maeve screamed.

Out of the bushes darted a skeever, sinking its sharp fangs into Hewnon’s thigh. He thought back valiantly, of course, but the weight of the curse was still hanging over him, preventing him from finishing the creature. For its part, the skeever seemed content with tearing out the flesh from his leg, but a quick – albeit sloppy – swing from the ax put an end to such ambitions. Hewnon grunted and pressed his hands over the (thankfully shallow) flesh wound. He turned his head, but his eyes could not spot Maeve anywhere. The brat had run off, it seemed. That meant that the curse was no longer something to fear and that Hewnon’s hands were now free of Maeve, the burden. He could’ve thanked the Divines, but settled for another bottle of mead.

Unbeknown to him, the “curse” he _should_ have feared was one of his own making.


	2. Chapter 2

Maeve ran as fast as her little bony legs could carry her, tripping over rocks and twigs, huffing and gasping for breath. She had already scraped her knees and bruised her arms, but that mattered not to the girl. All she cared about was escaping, she had to run, run far away. All she could think of was the ax, the ax that would’ve cleaved off her head and sliced up her body. And the father who would throw her corpse in a ditch and go on his merry way to Whiterun.

What had she done wrong?

She had been quiet and obedient, she had done as he asked, she- she was a good child! But no matter what she did, her father would still punish her and her mother would still pretend she wasn’t there. There was always some creak of the floorboard, or insolent glance, or rebellious sigh, or laziness, or a spilled cup, or dust she missed while cleaning, or a shirt too dirty, or coming from the fields too late, or the food she stole because there was none at home, or an arrogant stumble, or saying something – anything at all, nothing she said was worth listening to – and she would be beaten and yelled at and left outside in the chilly night. If she really ever was a good child, her father wouldn’t have hit her and her mother wouldn’t have ignored her and left her behind.

She thought about her mentor, Jouanne, about whether he would even notice that she was gone. Would he look for her? Would he worry about her? The girl thought of the spells she had been taught – Candlelight, specifically – but her magicka felt strangely drained, as if she had recently used an especially costly spell.

Fatigue finally stopped her and the child tumbled into the grass, struggling to breathe. She had done something wrong. She was wrong. Why couldn’t she just be worthy of her father’s love? Maeve curled up and cried, covering her face with her hands. Her tiny body was wracked with sobs. Oh, if only she could undo her mistake! She must’ve shivered provocatively, or met Hewnon’s gaze insubordinately, or walked in line with him, not behind like she was supposed to. She . . . she had made a terrible mistake, by the Divines, if only she could somehow undo it! She would pray for forgiveness her entire life if she could reverse the damage!

The night was cold and she was so small and alone in the endless sea of grass. If she hadn’t been so stupid, she’d be sitting next to a crackling campfire with her father, or maybe without the fire, curled up on the ground a few paces away from him, so as to not disturb his rest. If she hadn’t been so disobedient and unruly, her mother would’ve never left her and she would be at home in her cozy little cupboard, Hewnon drinking at the table and Orla sleeping on the floor. Then all would be as it should be. Then all would be okay. Then all would be well.

And now it would never be.


	3. Chapter 3

Maeve woke up wet and cold, shivering in her gray dress. Autumn rain was pouring over the plains, the sky dark and dreary. The girl sat up, feeling magicka ebb and flow through her as usual. She remembered feeling completely drained the night before – was that just a dream? Pushing that thought aside, she focused and produced a rudimentary fire spell – just enough to warm her. Jouanne had been vehemently against teaching her anything more advanced.

“Not until you’re older,” he’d say, no matter how much Maeve begged.

But now the time to grow older was gone, smashed to pieces like the innkeeper’s hourglass (was that her doing? Or did her father break it? Either way, it was her fault. Stupid clumsy Maeve with her stupid fingers that grew out of her stupid elbows). Now she would never return to Rorikstead, even if she knew how to, because that was no place for one little girl without her parents. If her mother and father left, so should she. But how could she follow them now, when she had mucked it all up? All hope seemed lost.

Although . . . Maeve remembered how Mralki, the innkeeper, whispered about Orla. That she had gone to Markarth, to the Temple. The girl had no idea why anyone would want to go there – the Reach was infested with filthy reachmen barbarians, but if her mother chose that as her destination, then there she would go. Of course, there was the option of catching up to her father, but Maeve doubted Hewnon would welcome her back. She had committed a transgression too grave to be forgiven, but her mother didn’t know yet. If she could get to Markarth, she’d beg for forgiveness, do anything Orla needed and everything would be good again.

The child’s stomach growled like a beast of Oblivion, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in what – two days? That wasn’t a terribly long time though for her appetite to reach such levels. Maeve looked around – the grass was the same in every direction. To the north, there were mountains and to the south, there were more mountains. Now, if only she could figure out where was west! But wait – the road! She couldn’t have gone far. Whiterun was to the east so the road had to go to the east. And the road was south of her . . . probably.

Either way, Maeve headed out. Rain still drizzled, the grass still moved in the wind, the mountains still stood. The world hadn’t ended. She could still make things good. She still had time. Who knows, maybe she would see Rorikstead again. Maybe she would read books with Jouanne once again. Maybe she would play hide-and-seek with Erik once again. Maybe she would go to the dragon mound with Sissel once again. Maybe she would catch mice in the haystacks with Britte like before then. If only she wasn’t so dumb and crazy, then this situation could’ve been avoided entirely.

The child walked alone in the grassland, occasionally catching glimpses of movement in the great green fields, but nothing came forth to attack her. Maeve herself didn’t seriously consider the possibility of an ambush either. Her stomach grumbled again like a frost troll, insisting that the girl find food. She looked around, but saw nothing edible. Rain still dripped down from the heavens as Maeve walked and walked, stumbling and tripping, but standing up every time.

After a while, Maeve found a mushroom nestled between the razor-sharp blades of grass and, taking the only reasonable and logical approach, ate it up. The fungus tasted like spoiled meat, but it was much better than some things Maeve had eaten in her short and uneventful life. The girl kept on walking, trying to hum like a bard, but failing miserably. The only sound emanating from her throat was a high-pitched screech.

But then, Maeve felt a most amazing feeling, like she was floating far from her body and in the clouds. She laughed because everything was so funny and utterly hilarious and she was so light and happy and nothing could hurt her – not her father or mother or anyone else. She laughed again because her parents never hurt her, they simply wanted what was best for her, silly Maeve, why did she think like that? The ground seemed to be doing cartwheels under her feet and Maeve stumbled, still giggling because it was just so funny for her to fall like that.

She saw a funny sight somewhere in the distance, looking like a hole or tunnel and before long, Maeve cartwheeled there. Or did she walk? Either way, she now stood before the entrance to a magical wonderland – the kind of place that storybooks often took their heroes to. She dived deep into the vortex, falling into the dark blue sea, sloshing and bobbing in the waves. Dust settled around her knees as she fell out of the water and onto the beach. Maroon sand stretched out around her, left and right and up and down, creating a den, a tunnel, a dome. Maeve crawled along the shore, tentacles of wet death chaining her ankles, confining her to the deep waters. The girl felt herself rocked up and down, the tunnel-dome of sea and sand churning around her like a blizzard.

“Mommy? Daddy?” she cried out, stuck between the collapsing ceiling and bottomless ocean.

“Unworthy child! Unworthy child!” chanted Orla and Hewnon as they rose from the abyss.

Their hands dripped deadly poison, their hearts pumped venom. Their teeth were sharp like daggers and they wailed for blood and death and suffering.

“Unworthy child! We give you a chance, a final chance to make all right!” they stretched out the hands of murderers and monsters and beckoned Maeve closer “Join us! Embrace us, unworthy child!”

“No!” cried the girl “You’re not my mommy! You’re not my daddy! They’re nice and kind and good, you’re not!”

“You’re wrong! Wrong, unworthy child!” howled the creatures of the abyss “We are your parents and we are the only parents you will _ever_ have!”

Maeve vomited onto the vortex-sand and darkness caught her in its iron grip.


	4. Chapter 4

She was in a cave. Not in a dark, dreary cave where lived evil monsters and horrid warlocks, but a serene and lovely cave in which the sun shone from ceiling-holes, trees grew and birds chirped. Maeve remembered how the tunnel had looked before and shuddered. It . . . it was just her dreaming awake. Stupid insane Maeve with her stupid insane not-dreams that came when she wasn’t sleeping. Pushing the more bothersome thoughts on her situation aside, Maeve wobbled upright and stumbled into the underground nature sanctuary.

Pine and elm trees bathed in sunlight, stretching their claw-like branches towards the sun. Bunnies and butterflies roamed around the cove and Maeve could see the clear blue sky above. The girl’s stomach grumbled, but extremely conveniently for her, there turned out to be a snowberry bush in the cove. Maeve picked off the berries and ate them – they seemed like the real deal. Then she drank water from a cave-stream and noticed a statue of sorts in the distance. The child ducked under an outstretched branch and found herself before an alcove of sorts.

A statue of Talos loomed before Maeve, sword and all. The girl wondered why the god’s amulet looked like a hammer, yet in every depiction, the Protector of Mankind wielded a blade. Maeve hopped up the steps and discovered that she was barely as tall as the statue’s knee. Had Talos been this tall in life too? At closer inspection, it turned out that the altar was littered with bones.

Maeve squealed in horror.

Fortunately for her, these were just bleached bones, they did not rise as creatures of evil to slay her. In a way, these bones were like those of slaughtered animals, but a skull clearly identified them as the remains of a human (or humans). Before the altar to Talos lay a crumpled piece of paper. Maeve uncurled the parchment and strained to make out the letters.

_To anyone who finds this writ:_

_I am Bolar, agent of the Blades. The Thalmor have finally found me. If you take up my oathblade_ _to slay the Thalmor as I have_ _, my memory will be honored._

And indeed, a most bizarre sword lay some distance away, caked with dirt and mud. It was a sword of the Blades, a ninja-blade of the ninja-order. Maeve couldn’t believe her luck – now she had an actual sword! She picked it up and gave it a few swings, which turned out to be more difficult than expected. The ninja-blade was really heavy and unwieldy, weighing the girl down like a chain. But she wasn’t the kind of child to give up easily, so after a while she managed to fit it into her belt. Maeve looked at the writ for a second and then tucked it into her belt too. Maybe she’d need it one day.

She felt so much more important now – not like a lost girl, but a warrior on a mission. And the warriors always came back home victorious – in the songs and stories, at least.

Would she?


	5. Chapter 5

The road to Markarth was long. Long long long long. It snaked up one hill, then down, to rise again over another. Maeve hadn’t seen any reachman barbarians, but she had to be careful. There seemed to be a nice house in the distance, right up yet more hills. Maeve picked up her pace – maybe she could nicely ask the nice people who lived there to nicely stay at their house for the night? She was sure that if they really were nice people, they’d agree. Then she remembered the many times that mother and father had left her out in the snow and rain. Would the nice people do that too? Of course not, unlike all those times she would try her hardest and not disappoint them. Orla and Hewnon only left her outside if she was being a bad girl, after all.

Was she a bad girl?

She had those evil black eyes and she was as pale as a vampire and no matter what she did, she was still wrong and stupid and ruined everything. She was a bad girl, the worst ever. No one could compare to her – not the adults, not Britte even though she was often mean (it was Maeve’s fault, obviously), not even Sissel when she cried about how Jouanne always loved Maeve more than her and always taught her the most (firstly, he didn’t, secondly it was Maeve’s fault for making her friend jealous) and most definitely not Erik even if he took Maeve on “adventures” that ended with her being sent to sleep in the barn with the cows (it was her fault, after all). It seemed like there was nothing she could do that was right and good and made her parents happy.

Maeve trudged up yet another hill and got a much clearer view of the house. It was right next to the road and above it was some kind of a cave- no, a mine! She liked to imagine that it contained some recently-unearthed magical artifacts or ancient ruins. But most likely it was just another boring old mine. The girl saw three people next to the house, dressed in fur bikini and loincloths. These were no simple miners.

These were the Forsworn.

Maeve stopped in her tracks, but it was too late – the reachmen had already noticed her. The girl felt her heart pump faster and a cold sweat form on her back. She had heard tales of the savagery of these natives, how they abducted children and butchered mothers, how they transformed into horrid wolf-men and bird-creatures and devoured the flesh of their enemies. And she was the enemy.

There were two men and a woman – one man behind the house, next to the mine, bow in hands, staring at her. The woman held two swords, the other man had two axes and both came closer to the girl.

“This one is young,” remarked the man “Think we can use her?”

Maeve’s throat dried out and closed up.

“Too thin, too short, too bony,” said the woman “I don’t think she’ll make a good warrior.”

She couldn’t run. She couldn’t hide. She couldn’t fight.

“A sacrifice then,” decided the man.

She had to do something, anything that could save her, but there was nothing that she could do, she should’ve been more careful, more watchful, now she was helpless, completely helpless!

A large frostbite spider crawled out of the bushes, its fangs dripping freezing poison.

“Spider! Spider!” screamed the archer, his weapon falling out of his shaking hands.

The two warriors charged at the creature, screaming their battlecries. Maeve felt the wind at her back and ran, far away from the archer who was now aiming at the spider, from the woman who screamed in pain as she was covered in poison, from the man who hacked and slashed at the beast, from the house and mine upon the hill. The girl ran and ran, until she could no longer hear the sounds of battle and the hill was gone from her view, gone like the life she had in Rorikstead.

The sword which she hadn’t even thought to use hung from her belt like a snare, slowing her down and threatening to tangle up her legs. The blades of the reachmen were so sharp, their smirks so hideous and vile. If not for the spider . . . just like that skeever, it saved her. Why? Why did animals keep saving her when she was a bad girl, a failure? It didn’t make any sense.

Unless . . . unless she was the one calling upon these creatures in her time of need. She felt for her magicka – it was completely drained, slowly trickling back to her even though she had cast no spells. She was indeed the one summoning, no, beckoning these critters to her. But Jouanne had never taught her this kind of magic and she hadn’t read it from a spellbook. This spell had to be one that she made herself, something unique to her.

Maeve smiled – she wasn’t defenseless or helpless. She could save herself like a real fighter, a real wizard. And wizards returned from grand adventures with cool trinkets and stories to tell, not in oaken caskets carried by mourners.

So would she.


	6. Chapter 6

Maeve sat in the shade of a scraggly tree, feasting on its berries. The sun had just risen and a familiar chill hung in the air. She had been familiarized quite extensively with the nights of Skyrim during the many times she was sent to sleep in the barn or in the fields. The girl wondered idly, why that never seemed to happen to other kids – why Mralki never shouted at Erik, for example, or left him outside in a snowstorm, or hit him. The obvious answer was that Maeve was bad and stupid and clumsy and she deserved everything. The less obvious answer was that she was a girl – after all, Britte and Sissel were beaten just the same. But when Britte once hit Erik over the head with a broom, his father came to talk to her (Maeve had found that when someone went to talk to you, they almost always intended to commit physical violence, not a verbal assault).

That made surprising sense. Why hadn’t she thought of that earlier? Well, the answer was obvious – she was dumb and idiotic, no good ideas would ever come to her. But then, why could she summon animals if she was so stupid, how could she do that if she had never been taught this spell? Maeve wasn’t supposed to be special or gifted, she was supposed to be ordinary and useless.

Why wasn’t that the case?


	7. Chapter 7

Maeve skipped up the steps to the Temple of Dibella, her sword bobbing back and forth on her skinny waist. The sky was cloudy and released all of its pent-up frustration in a magnificent thunderstorm. The girl thought it was cool how the city was built out of stone – then it wouldn’t catch on fire. Well, hopefully. She remembered how lightning struck Britte’s home, how the wooden house burned and crackled and spat embers. It was rare for things to burn like that – the more mundane fires were boring. Then again, every campsite and hearth could start a real fire, even the tiniest candle could burn down a city, as her father had often said. When he was sober, that was. And that wasn’t often.

So far, her biggest gripe with Markarth was the large amount of long staircases. And the long long long long road to get there, which wasn’t much better than the staircases anyway, what with the hills rising and falling like ripples on a pond. Supposedly, waves in the sea were like that too, as her mother had told her. Maeve wanted to one day sail the seven seas, perhaps on a grand merchant vessel, or huge warship.

Maeve reached the grand temple that seemed to reach into the sky and strained to open the huge stone doors. Inside, there was a lone woman, clad in yellow robes. Maeve remembered a priest of Mara who had stopped in her village – he wore the same golden tunic. The different religious orders of Skyrim sure enforced their dress codes pretty strictly.

“What do you seek, child?” the lady asked “I am Senna, faithful of Dibella.”

“My mom. Orla San,” said the girl “The innkeeper said she came here.”

“Orla is indeed the name of our newest initiate,” nodded the local.

“So mom has become a real priestess in such a short time?” asked Maeve.

“Your mother’s been practicing the Dibellan Arts long before she got here,” said Senna “I’m surprised you don’t have any siblings.”

“Me too,” agreed the girl “I’ve always wanted a sister.”

“Oh, the innocence of youth,” sighed the priestess.

“What’s wrong?” wondered Maeve “Did I say something?”

“No, it’s just that . . .” muttered Senna “Nevermind. Don’t worry, I just have a lot to think about.”

“Uh-huh,” nodded the girl “Can I see mom?”

“Not right now, I’m afraid. The others are performing a ritual. They cannot be disturbed,” the priestess shook here head “What is your name, if I might ask?”

“Maeve Black-Skeever,” the girl introduced herself “What are they doing in the backroom? Are they whoring around?”

“What?!” Senna was incensed at the suggestion “You should know better than to use such vulgar language in these hallowed halls! Dibella’s love and passion are pure, not the proliferations of a tavern wench!”

“My mom is a tavern wench,” Maeve looked at her in confusion “When she goes into the backroom, she whores around. Everyone knows that. Then people give her stuff and I’m not hungry.”

“Orla is not,” the woman continued “Those people were simply dismissive of her gift.”

“Really? But they liked mom,” Maeve’s confusion only increased.

“There are still some things you are too young to grasp,” assured her Senna.

“I’m not too young!” protested the child “I’m an adventurer! I can do magic! I escaped the Forsworn!”

“Oh.” said the priestess and fell silent.

Maeve glared, feeling like all those times her questions were answered with a smack instead of words. But people who weren’t family didn’t do that. So she was safe. Senna wouldn’t hit her. Well, okay, Lemkil had thrown a rock at her when she’d asked to play with Britte, but he was dad’s drinking buddy and all the drinks made him weird, so that didn’t count. Senna didn’t look like she’d been drinking – priests and healers weren’t supposed to, Jouane had told her. Maybe that’s why he was always so nice to her, because everyone else drank and he couldn’t?

“You may sit down,” the priestess pointed to one of the benches lining the walls “You can see your mother shortly.”

Maeve did as she was told. She felt like her mother was being kept from her, taken away by people she didn’t know. Why had Orla wanted to leave? Everything had been good on their little farm.

After a while, more priestesses emerged from their little abode. Maeve wondered what they had been doing inside. Whoring around, maybe?

“Mom!” the girl noticed a familiar shape and ran up to her.

In her haste and elation, she forgot about her mother’s distaste for being hugged. Orla recoiled from her daughter, surprise – maybe even horror – plainly visible on her face.

“Why are you here?” she demanded.

“When you left,” Maeve felt unsure, like she could earn a beating at any time “dad left too. I didn’t know where to go . . .”

If mom didn’t know what Maeve had done, then she wouldn’t get angry. Right?

Right?

**Wrong.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a hiatus now, because I've ran out of pre-written material. And I really need to get my other story in order, because I'm planning a third one . . . so, yeah.
> 
> But I will continue this story because I'm attached to Maeve. Pretty much the only reason I write my stories is because I'm so attached to my OC protagonists.

“What have you done?” Orla bemoaned, rubbing her temples.

Maeve had told her of the events that had transpired, leaving out the part where her father tried to kill her, of course. But lying was bad and she was always found out when she lied, so maybe it wasn’t worth it?

“What am I going to do with you?” she continued, not even looking at her daughter “Why couldn’t you just stay put with your father?”

“He, um,” Maeve felt invisible fingers squeezing her throat “he-he tried to kill me with the ax.”

“You’re lying,” Orla stared at her, dumbfounded.

Maeve nodded. She must’ve missed something. Or forgotten. It had been a month since she had left her father. Who knows what _really_ happened? Not her, that was certain.

“And where is your father now, might I ask?” the mother crossed her arms.

“I-I don’t know . . . but he went somewhere. On the road,” Maeve tried to explain to the best of her ability, but she didn’t know anymore.

Everything she remembered was probably a lie.

“Where did he go?” shrieked Orla “What road? Did he go to Solitude? Did he go to Whiterun? Did he go to Falkreath? Did he go here?”

“Um,” the girl couldn’t pinpoint the direction “He went to the plains.”

“Whiterun, then,” she sighed “Can’t you catch up to him? I’m sure he’s already found work.”

“But . . .” Maeve began, when Orla’s glare cut her off “Okay, mom.”

The woman continued glaring, like she wanted her daughter to shrivel up and die from the force of the stare.

It didn’t matter what Maeve thought had happened. Once again, she was a stupid girl. A stupid girl who had to run away from her own father like a coward. Hewnon would’ve calmed down. He would’ve taken her with him. She shouldn’t have run. She didn’t know what had really happened. Maeve stepped towards the large, ornate doors of the temple that looked like they were carved long ago by the dwarves. Her sword hung from her waist like a chain, a burden to remind her of how small and frail she really was.

“Wait a moment, girl,” Senna stopped her “You don’t have to do this.”

“But mom said . . .” she began.

“I don’t think she understood you right,” the woman started talking heresy “You don’t have anywhere else to go to? No uncles, aunts, third-cousins-once-removed?”

Maeve shook her head.

“Well then, I have a friend you can stay with,” she continued talking heresy “I’ll write her a letter and she’ll take you in.”

“But I need to find my dad,” Maeve protested against the sacrilege.

“Of course, but maybe a little later,” Senna tried to lead her astray, like a villain in fairy tales “Surely your father would be angry? Now, I need you to go on a mission. You are an adventurer, no?”

Maeve nodded – she _did_ look cool and experienced, like she knew what she was doing!

“I need you to go to Karthwasten. It’s a hamlet in the mountains,” Senna explained the mission like only a true conspirator would “There lives a young girl about your age. She is the Sybil of Dibella. Deliver the news to her and her parents. They won’t believe you if you just come knocking, so I’ll provide you with a sealed letter. Don’t open it! If all goes well, then you’ll accompany her here.”

“Alright then,” said the girl “Mom won’t mind, no?”

“I’ll talk to her,” promised Senna “Here’s for your supper.” and gave the kid a coin.

Maeve knew she wasn’t supposed to take gifts from anyone – especially not strangers. All gifts had to be given to her parents – but she supposed it was okay. After all, Senna was a fellow priestess. The girl took the round Septim in her hand – she had never been allowed to hold money before. Not for long, at least. And certainly not to buy something on her own.

She was _rich_ now.

Like a fairytale princess, she had come from the rags of a poor peasant to the riches of a city girl with the aid of a good witch, er, a priestess.

“Thanks,” said Maeve and skipped out of the temple and down the steps.

The thunderstorm had cleared, leaving the sky a uniform gray. The girl set her sights upon the marketplace, which was huge and full of color, every stall like a tiny warehouse, filled to the brim with trinkets and oddities. Maeve wondered what she could buy – she saw a stall with all kinds of meat, even mammoth, a counter promising fresh apples and dried prunes and a milkmaid’s humble abode.

Maeve held the sealed letter firmly in her grasp, resorting to tucking it into her belt to free her hand. It took a place of honor besides Bolar’s writ, close to the belt buckle. This strap of leather with metal attached was now everything she had remaining from her father. And soon enough, of her mother.

Why did Maeve always have to ruin everything?

It seemed to just be a fundamental truth of the universe: Maeve would mess up and in her haste to fix things, she would make them even worse. The arrangement felt unfair, like she was deliberately set up to fail by the uncaring gods, like she was made to be bad, like she was created with the inability to improve. Or maybe she was just bad, unworthy, foolish. Perhaps there was a way to improve herself that she simply couldn’t see through her own stupidity. If only she were a little better (and a boy) her father would treat her like Mralki would treat his son Erik.

Alas, she had to make do what she had. No point in lamenting her inescapable fate now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting this fic off hiatus, but the updates will be short and infrequent. Maeve won't be getting to Riften for a long time yet.
> 
> Also, OH MY BOY I HAVE A SUBSCRIBER AND FIVE KUDOSS!!! This is so awesome, thanks y'all, dear readers!

Maeve sat in the Silver-Blood Inn, which was named after the rich people who owned the city, and enjoyed a sweet roll. Mother and father never bought her any, not even when Mralki cooked some in the communal bread oven. Come to think of it, Orla and Hewnon never ate sweets – maybe they didn’t like the taste? But they hadn’t said she wasn’t allowed to eat them, so it was all okay. Or maybe they had and Maeve was forgetting something. She was always so forgetful. Why though? Why did she have to be that way?

Oh well. The mysteries of creation couldn’t be deciphered by mortal minds. Whatever that meant. Maeve had no idea, after all, she was as Reldith had so eloquently put it, a “filthy peasant child”. Not that Reldith was any better, but Jouane had told her elves were simply smug and had an need to feel superior. Maeve kinda felt bad for elves, if they really needed to do that. _Must be tough to always find reasons for being the best._

The tavern was filled with all kinds of folk. Maeve expected more miners, but maybe they had their own establishment close to the mine? The locals paid her no mind, though some looked suspiciously at her sword. The girl looked back, unafraid. She had magic, she could take them. Probably. If she tried really hard. She could do anything if she tried really hard (clearly she wasn’t _that_ motivated to be a good daughter, since she kept failing).

But could she really go alone into the Reach to find this backwater hamlet alone? Face the forsworn, alone? Any adventurer worth her salt knew when it was time to call for backup. Where would she find companions for her trip, though? Maeve looked around. She spotted a few guards (who certainly weren’t there to keep the law, given their leathery armor, drinking.

She approached the first one, who had an ax on his belt and sat besides the fireplace. He looked a lot like a forsworn. Maeve felt a teeny-tiny shiver go through her. But he wasn’t wearing any skulls, so he was okay.

“Are you an adventurer?” she asked “I need a travel companion.”

“Of course,” he tapped his armored knee “Vorstag, at your service. What is your offer?”

So he was a mercenary. Like Erik always wanted to be. Maybe Erik was already a mercenary, while she was wasting her time here . . .

“Here you go,” Maeve offered her one remaining septim to him.

“Might want to scrounge up a bit more, girl,” he looked disapprovingly “And lay off adventuring for at least a few years. It’s not for kids.”

“You’re just jealous of my ninja-blade,” scoffed Maeve and moved on swiftly. She wasn’t bitter at being dismissed at all, honest.

The mercenary said nothing.

The other guy had quite a few bottles in a barricade surrounding his barstool. His armor was of far poorer quality, with a huge hole on his stomach, making it look more like a harness some adults used for their grown-up games. They would never tell Maeve what they were doing, even though she was already ten. Okay, maybe they just liked harnesses, but what were the pitchforks and whips for?

“Are you an adventurer?” Maeve asked.

“Nah, just a porter,” he took another swig “No work, though. Forsworn keep robbing the caravans.”

“Would you like to come with me on an adventure?” the girl offered her coin “I can pay.”

The man looked at the coin. And blinked. And blinked again. His mouth started to morph into a mad grin. Maeve, feeling her hand tire, began regretting extending it. He looked too much like a forsworn. Maybe he had to yet collect the skulls needed?

“All yours,” he took the coin “When we heading out?”

Maeve tapped her foot on the ground (she’d heard it made her seem smart when she thought).

“Let’s go,” she waved to him “I’m Maeve Black-Skeever.”

“I’m Cosnach,” he followed her like a loyal guard dog. _He does kinda look like a_ _mutt_ _. . ._

The two adventurers set out into the hills as the waning moon hung in the sky. The misty mountains in the backdrop were obscured by the darkness, seeming to have disappeared. The roads were empty, glinting pale yellow in the night like infinite ropes.

But the night was cold and Maeve soon began regretting setting out so late. Who would’ve thought that adventuring in the dark wasn’t a good idea?


	10. Chapter 10

The morning greeted Maeve and Cosnach with pale gray clouds, which would likely begin raining soon.

“Should’ve stolen a horse,” mumbled the hungover man.

“Wait. That’s illegal,” the girl looked at him suspiciously.

“Yeah, I know,” he shrugged “The forsworn are illegal too, but what does the jarl do? Nothing, that’s what.”

Maeve didn’t know what else to say, so she simply walked alongside her new friend in silence. Strange how despite being bad in every way, the girl never had a shortage of friends. Maybe that was simply because there were so few kids in the village? Just her, Britte, Sissel and Erik, who was already grown though. Well, there had also been Ennis, but he didn’t count because he was fourteen years older than Maeve. Yes, that was probably it. If Maeve had lived in a big city, then no one would’ve cared for her. That sounded just about right.

The two adventurers arrived in town two days into their journey, which wasn’t the longest Maeve had spent without food. It would’ve taken longer if the forsworn had focused more effort into taking down road signs. But they clearly had better things to do. Maeve didn’t know much about human sacrifice, but she figured it took a lot of time and effort. The village of Karthwasten was a mining hamlet with a lot of thugs hanging around and a little more angry locals.

“They don’t even have a tavern,” Cosnach sniffed disapprovingly, feeling the effects of flu season on himself “What business would you have here anyway?”

“I’ve gotta find the Sybil of Dibella,” explained the girl.

“So they’re paying?” he instantly perked up, his cold forgotten “You’re a clever kid, Maeve.”

The child, feeling warm and fuzzy all over, blushed.

“Does a girl, about my age, live here?” the traveler asked the closest local.

“Enmon and Mena have a daughter,” the man said “Alas, she was kidnapped by the forsworn a few days ago.”

“How lucky for us,” grumbled Cosnach.

“Where did the forsworn take her?” Maeve continued.

“Some ruined Imperial fort on the far side of those mountains,” he pointed “Look, if you want to hear all about that, you’re better off talking to the parents. They live just next to the silver mine.”

There were _two_ mines in the village, as it turned out. Maeve would’ve thought more people ought to live there, what with the amount of ore, but then again, there didn’t seem to be much farmland. Fair enough. The house upon the hill had a busted-in door that somehow still clung on to the hinges and a straw roof. It looked just like home. How long had it been since Maeve had left? She couldn’t tell anymore. For all she knew, Sissel and Britte could be grown already.

She knocked on the door and a tired miner came to open it.

“What do you want?” he asked, haggard and weary.

Maeve offered him her letter, unsure of what else to do. He read it and his frown only deepened.

“Now I know why the forsworn wanted her,” the man sighed “They kidnapped her. My little girl. She’s all alone with those _creatures_ , while the guards do nothing to get her back.”

“We can find her then,” offered Maeve “I’m an adventurer, after all.”

The local looked at her suspiciously “You’re probably right. I should do something, not wait here for a miracle.”

“Yeah, let’s go bash some skulls,” agreed Cosnach.

“Wait, I’ll go grab my pickaxes,” he disappeared into the dark house and emerged with two weapons “Their encampment isn’t far from here. Crawling with filth, though.”

“Got any ale?” Cosnach pleaded.

“Nah,” said the miner “We don’t have a tavern, in case you haven’t noticed. Why don’t you two introduce yourselves to me? I’m Enmon.”

“I’m Maeve Black-Skeever,” said the girl.

“Name’s Cosnach,” muttered her companion.

“What a fancy name,” Enmon shook his head “You from the city or something?”

“No, I’m from Rorikstead,” Maeve blinked. Was her father’s name fancy too?

“Hmph. Never heard of that place,” the miner displayed his ignorance.

The local said goodbye to his wife, receiving a generous loaf of bread for the journey, which Maeve and Cosnach immediately began coveting. The weather was alright, but it could start raining at any moment. The clouds were gray and foreboding, like nature was frozen in anticipation. The “calm before the storm” wasn’t just a catchy proverb, as Maeve knew from her many sleepless nights outside.

“Do the forsworn really live in an abandoned fort?” Maeve pestered the local “Why did the empire abandon it?”

“Don’t have the money, that’s why,” explained Enmon “Left it during the Great War, ripe for the goat-heads to take.”

“Goat-heads?” the kid raised an eyebrow.

“Their helmets look like that,” Cosnach chimed in “Heard they breed like goats too.”

Enmon laughed, but the child didn’t quite understand what was so funny.

After a while of walking, the local veered off the beaten path and began trekking into the mountains.

“Where are you going?” Cosnach furrowed his rather unimpressive eyebrows “The road is right here.”

“The fort was built into a hill right next to the road,” Enmon elaborated “No way I’m going in the front door. We’ll enter through the battlements.”

Maeve followed the miner, Cosnach dragging his feet behind her. He tried to grumble something rude, but Enmon shushed him with the threat of wild animals and raiders. The clouds floated so close now, like Maeve could touch them, if only she stood on her toes reached out. The first drops of rain dribbled down onto the travelers. They took refuge under a scraggly juniper tree. Enmon divided the loaf of bread in three and gave Maeve and Cosnach a piece each. The girl had her fill, but the porter still wanted more. The rain became stronger, battering the ground with vengeance. Erik had said that rain came when Kynareth wept for the dead. That could explain why there seemed to be more rain around – after all, a war had recently begun.

After a long wait, Cosnach became bored and asked Maeve “What’s this Rorik-steady place? Is it in High Rock or something?”

“What?” the girl snapped to attention “Rorikstead is in Whiterun Hold! Right close, I could see these hills from my window.”

“Oh?” Cosnach turned towards her “Thought you looked like a breton.”

“I’m a nord!” the child bristled.

“Lucky you,” Enmon sighed “You have an ounce of foreign blood here, you’re a filthy reachman.”

“Really?” Maeve raised her eyebrows “Are all bretons reachmen?”

That didn’t make sense – no way could Jouane be one of them! And the locals seemed way too nice to be so evil.

“Of course not,” the miner shook his head “That’s just what the nords think.”

“But I don’t think so,” the youth was confused “Neither do my friends . . .”

“You’re the exception, then,” the villager seemed cross.

Maeve shut her mouth and didn’t say anything else. If only it were as easy to tell when she had upset her father! If only she would’ve known when to stop then . . .


	11. Chapter 11

The fort was huge, just like the hill from which it grew out. Maeve would’ve been intimidated by the structure if she wasn’t on top of it. She crawled behind Enmon and Cosnach, her short legs struggling to carry her over the rocky ground. The girl measured each step, just like Enmon had taught her to – looked, then set her foot down. If the forsworn saw her, she’d have to run. Run and pray for another animal to save her, another beast to get her out of a bind. But that wouldn’t just happen for a third time, she was a bad girl and she wasn’t supposed to get lucky. Those two times were just coincidence, the will of the gods. They had given her chances at redemption, so that she could do better in the future. And a power she had to learn to command in order to become a fearsome druid, one who feared no man or mer!

The shapes of the forsworn grew in size and ferocity as the wayward adventurers neared them. Cosnach drew his bow, while Enmon reached for the pickaxes. Maeve tried to focus, tried to direct the arcane energies from her body to call upon the wrath of nature, but instead she slipped and fell onto the moist grass. Its blades dug into her exposed skin like tiny needles, tickling the child. The girl smiled, reminded of all the times she and Erik would run into the plains, only to be inevitably scolded when they returned. The youth caught Enmon’s disapproving gaze from the corner of her eye and got up. Now was not the time to laze around and reminisce about times long gone.

The forsworn were on the lookout, but not for the adventurers, they stared intently at the road. Two kept watch from the fort’s highest level, more scurried like ants on the walkways below. Maeve’s insides tingled as her legs carried her closer and closer – just like that time near the mine. But this time, she wasn’t a helpless child blundering naively through the wilderness – now she was a wizard with two bodyguards.

She thought to her power and called out to nature, straining her magicka to summon another animal to her aid. Nothing happened. The girl took two hesitant steps closer and concentrated on the image of a bear striding out from behind a rocky outcropping and smiting the filthy reachmen. It was hard to focus when every step could be her last, when she had to look out for Enmon and Cosnach. Things would’ve been so much easier had she come alone.

Enmon spotted a door leading inside the castle and pointed. Cosnach stumbled, head twisting around. Maeve ducked inside the tall grass. Her heart beat once, then twice. Cosnach rose slowly, reaching for the bow he had dropped.

“Trespasser!” shouted the forsworn.

That got the drunkard’s attention. He straightened and aimed at the man now charging him. Enmon stood and ran to the door, an arrow hitting the ground right in front of him. Maeve lay in the grass, feeling cold. Her limbs were paralyzed, fingers shaking. Cosnach, having missed two shots, engaged a reachman in single combat. Behind them, Enmon ran in zigzags, trying to evade more arrows. Maeve had to do something. It was her duty to find the Sybil, her quest. She would not stand idly by while her travel companions were being slaughtered!

Maeve pulled out Bolar’s Oathblade and charged the reachman nearest to her, shouting the worst obscenity Britte had taught her. The man glanced at her and that was his undoing. Cosnach butted him in the head with the shaft of an ax. The porter then drew the bow again and fired away at the reachwoman.

Maeve ran inside, holding the sword above her head like she’d seen warriors do. The child nearly tripped over a loose pebble, dropping the sword. The forsworn bowman took aim and Maeve stared right at her impending doom.

She dropped to the ground and the arrow passed above her, impacting a rock. While the woman fumbled with another arrow, Cosnach finally managed to hit her. With a sharp scream, she plummeted from the battlements. Yet more of the barbarians climbed up the fort, axes and swords raised to strike.

“I’ll hold ‘em off!” Cosnach proclaimed, picking up a few loose arrows from the ground.

Maeve sincerely doubted that the porter could do that for long. She swiped the ninja-blade and ran inside.

Enmon stood in the midst of some ritual circle, deflecting the blows of a fearsome forsworn shaman. The woman’s chest was torn open, a clump of thorns and weeds hanging out of her chest. She growled like a wolf and struck Enmon with an ax. Protective magic cloaked her, shielding her from harm.

In the corner was a cage, the Sybil within it. The girl met Maeve’s gaze and pointed to the table in the middle of the room. Amidst the feathers and flowers was a key. Maeve tiptoed behind the duel, trying not to slip on the fresh blood. Her cold fingers grasped the key, squeezing it into her palm.

The forsworn briarheart roared, pushing Enmon aside to lunge at Maeve. The woman was like Hewnon when he had one drink too many. In a way, the situation felt familiar. The girl squealed like a pig being slaughtered and ducked under the table. The forsworn struck the table, wood splinters flying up around her. Maeve buried herself deeper under it.

The woman snarled and tried to pull her weapon loose. The girl kicked the table and it overturned, smacking right against the shaman’s face. The briarheart didn’t even flinch, but her mage armor blinked out of existence. She took a step forward, raising her fist to smite the meddling kid. Maeve stared straight ahead. If she kept still and quiet, she’d stop eventually, like her father. But this wasn’t her father, it was a reachwoman, she had to fight, run, dodge, but where?

Enmon slammed his pickax into the shaman’s back, lodging it between the bone. The briarheart screamed, crumpling down onto the floor. Maeve flinched away from the corpse, gaze glued to beady eyes like those of a dead cow. Enmon breathed heavily, beating the corpse with his foot for good measure. Maeve silently offered him the key. The miner’s eyes brightened and he rushed to rescue his daughter.

The dull eyes of the briarheart stared at Maeve. She was a killer now. Strange how human blood was just like animal blood. Soon it would rust and turn the same color as offal. The girl was a killer. People were so fragile if one knew where to hit one. Her father had never hit her there. He was a good man, he wouldn’t do that. It had just been a mistake on the road to Whiterun. A mistake. Everyone made mistakes.

“Come now,” Enmon beckoned “Fjotra, Maeve, as soon as we get out, you two run straight back to Karthwasten. I can handle myself in a fight.”

“Of course you can, father,” the Sybil droned, eyes downcast.

Maeve stood and left, stepping over the corpse of the reachwoman. She was a killer now.

So be it. The world was better off without the briarheart anyway.


	12. Chapter 12

Maeve skipped down the road, the Sybil of Dibella behind her. Cosnach and Enmon were still far, fighting their way out from the fortress, but they would soon join the girls in Karthwasten. The sun had dipped below the hills and darkness reigned supreme over the Reach. The road rose over yet another hill, then split like a snake’s tongue.

“This way,” Fjotra took the lead “Tell me, is my mother alright? Have you seen her?”

“She’s home,” Maeve remembered “Don’t worry, the forsworn didn’t get anyone else.”

“They were after me,” the local declared “To use in their putrid rituals. If I heard correctly, you must be Maeve. Who is the other man? Is he your father?”

“I met Cosnach a few days ago,” the adventurer frowned “He lives in Markarth.”

“Do you?” continued Fjotra.

“I’m from Rorikstead,” answered the younger girl “I live on the other side of the mountains! My teacher always told me not to go into the hills, or the forsworn would snatch me up.”

“So did my father tell me,” she said in a monotone “Why did you and your friend come to rescue me?”

Fjotra sounded like a grown-up, dry and boring, as though she didn’t feel anything at all.

“The priestesses in Markarth sent me,” declared Maeve “You’re their Sybil.”

“As soon as I return home, I am to leave again,” she deduced “I shall say my farewells to mother and father, then.”

“How old are you?” the traveler asked.

“I’ve seen twelve winters,” the village and the mines started materializing in the distance “And you?”

“Only ten,” confessed the young witch “Ever been to Markarth?”

“Not once in my life,” Fjotra declared and yawned.

Maeve took that as a cue and shut up. Her father never gave her such obvious signals. But he was an adult and adults had to do more complicated stuff. It wasn’t his fault his daughter was a moron. Maybe he’d have liked it better if Maeve had been like Fjotra – dull and boring?

The moons rose over the crags and torchbugs flew up to greet them. It was hard to tell which spots of light were the stars and which were the awakened insects. From the windows of every house came candlelight and reflected hearthfire, telling tales of warm furs and hearty broth. Maeve felt her stomach grumble and her heart yearn for home.

Mena greeted her daughter and the wanderer with profuse joy, feeding them cabbage soup and pestering them all about their adventure. Fjotra was sullen, answering only with a few words at a time, but that didn’t seem to diminish her mother’s enthusiasm at all. It was up to Maeve to tell Mena all about the trip. The girl spared no words when describing the climactic battle with the briarheart. For some reason, the miner didn’t seem impressed at the child’s deeds, worrying instead over where the girl’s family was.

“My dad went to Whiterun,” Maeve told, a cold clump growing in her gut “And my mom became a priestess of Dibella.”

“So they aren’t looking after you anymore?” frowned Mena “They left you?”

“I kinda left dad by accident,” whispered the girl “I did bad. He doesn’t want me anymore.”

“Your mother sent you, didn’t she?” guessed the breton.

“No, another priestess did,” the child swallowed “Mom . . . is busy.”

“Once you bring Fjotra to Markarth . . .” she began “. . . you can come stay with us, if you don’t have anywhere to go. Enmon wouldn’t mind.”

Maeve blinked. Sure, Senna had said she’d set the girl up with a friend of hers, but Maeve could always say no. Karthwasten seemed really nice, just like Rorikstead, but with fewer fields. However, Orla was a priestess and Senna was her colleague. Maeve had to do as her mother bid. And her mother’s friend would surely know better than some random lady whose daughter she’d saved.

“No, I have places to go,” stated the child.

“I hope you’ll be happy there,” said Mena softly and brought some furs for the adventurer to sleep on.

_Me too_ Maeve wanted to say, but sleep gripped her and all the world’s pain was washed away by the blackness.


	13. Chapter 13

“I suppose you’re leaving now,” Enmon regarded his daughter, frowning.

“I must go, father,” Fjotra confirmed “the Temple awaits.”

“Have faith, my daughter. Remember us when you feel alone,” he hugged her.

“I will,” she said, but didn’t hug back.

“Farewell, Maeve, Cosnach,” the miner approached his comrades “It was an honor to fight beside you.”

“I agree,” declared the young adventurer, trying not to think of the dead woman in a pool of blood “May, um, the gods bless you and your crop.”

“Yeah, sure, bye” Cosnach waved dismissively “If only I had a bottle of strong ale to heal my wounds . . .”

“There’s gonna be plenty in Markarth, come on, let’s go,” Maeve tugged him on the gauntlet.

The sun rose over the horizon of jagged mountains, greeting the adventurers with its cold and distant glow. Though it looked just like it had in the summer, the girl knew better than to expect warmth. Maeve wondered what it tasted like – if not for the bright shine, the sun was like a huge cheese wheel.

“Cosnach, do they make cheese in Markarth?” the child pestered him.

“I dunno, go ask the farmers beyond the gates or something.” the drunk grumbled.

“I heard that goat cheese is produced near the city,” remarked Fjotra dispassionately “Our goats are objectively the best.”

“No way!” disagreed Maeve “My neighbor bred the hardiest, most beautiful and, um, producing goat in all the land!”

“You meant to say productive,” corrected the older child “The hardiest goats live in the mountains and ravines. They produce the most milk and need the least food. Clearly, your neighbor just didn’t have any good points of comparison.”

“Haven’t you heard of Gleda the Goat, who can fetch sticks like a dog?” exclaimed the adventurer indignantly.

“No, I haven’t,” the tween shot her down “I’m sure that compared to the rest of the valley goats, this Gleda appears favorably.”

“Smartass,” huffed Maeve.

“Imbecile,” sighed Fjotra.

“What does that even _mean_?!” she threw up her arms.

No way was this random miner smarter than her, Sybil of Dibella or not!

Maeve put her hands over her mouth. She wasn’t supposed to be bad or mean, she couldn’t hurt other people. What would the priestesses do when they learned of her mistake? And her mother – Orla would look at her sadly, and blink her eyes slowly and turn away from her disappointment of a daughter. Senna would never help her after this. Maeve could lie, but lying was bad, the gods hated liars, everything would be so much worse, she would never be happy then. And she couldn’t just run back to Enmon and Mena – she had insulted their daughter, their real daughter.

“I’m sorry for calling you a smartass,” said Maeve, feeling sticky bile in her throat.

Fjotra rolled her eyes.

In the morning, everything had been going so well.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm focusing on my other story, which is far from done, so the updates will be very sparse. I know almost exactly where this tale is going, just gotta write it all out. I'm glad I have so many kudos and three subscribers. When I started writing about Maeve, it was just a collection of loose scenes with a premise created from pure moonsugar. I had no idea it would prove entertaining for you, dear readers!

Despite supposedly crawling with forsworn, the roads of the Reach were always empty. The endless strands that made the hills and ravines navigable were silent, not even animals moving near them. And yet Maeve felt like the seeming quiet could be shattered at any moment, for she had crossed blades with the native savages, had been ambushed herself. This was their land, not hers, not the nords’ and they could do whatever they damn well pleased with it. The girl thought it must’ve been tiring to live in the Reach as a colonist, always afraid, never in control of home and hearth.

Fjotra and Cosnach walked silently in front of the girl, never waiting for her to catch up. Maeve thought herself fast, but her new friends always outran and outwalked her. The setting sun sent its rays through the clouds, coloring the sky in pink and gold.

“We should set up camp,” Fjotra droned.

“You tired already?” Cosnach grumbled “Guess I’ll have to gather firewood then.”

“It’s not that cold, we can sleep without it,” suggested the other child.

“The Sybil of Dibella needs to be taken care of,” he disagreed and began searching for twigs in the tall grass.

“Sorry,” Maeve said, feeling a jolt of cold through her chest.

“I am capable of sleeping in the cold, I am a nord,” Fjotra too considered that unnecessary.

“Shut up and help me carry the kindling,” the man growled, reverence for the Sybil all but forgotten.

Maeve dropped to her knees and began gathering fallen branches, moving away from the road and over the grassy hills. Timber was scarce, scraggly juniper trees only rarely growing out of unstable soil. The child wondered where the locals got all the lumber for their houses. Did the buy it from Falkreath and whatever hold Solitude was in? Orla had said there were tons of trees near Skyrim’s capital.

Maeve yanked a large branch out of the soil, adding it to her pile of wood scraps. A bush swayed in the breeze besides her, dying leaves rattling with every whiff of wind. The child crawled closer, snapping a twig off the shrub.

A skeever darted out, fangs bared, ready to defend its nest. Maeve dropped the branch and sat down. It was just a mindless animal – nothing like the forsworn who she’d fought and won.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she told the animal, keeping her voice even “I’m sorry for touching your nest.”

The girl felt her magicka drain, power slowly leaving her. The skeever relaxed, moving away from the child. Maeve stood, gathering the branches into her arms. The critter didn’t seem to care at all, ducking into the underbrush, disappearing into the twilight.

Maeve smiled. She truly had a great power. One day, she would be a real druid and her might would be known all throughout Skyrim.


	15. Chapter 15

Maeve, Fjotra and Cosnach stood below the Temple of Dibella, rising above the city of Markarth like a testament to the goddess’s glory. A few more stories and the tower would be splitting the clouds. The two travelers and their charge ascended the endless steps, the girl adventurer feeling like she was climbing the 7000 steps themselves. She couldn’t imagine ever going to High Hrothgar on a pilgrimage. Maybe she just had to get stronger, grow muscle like a real warrior. A frail wizard like her or Jouane would definitely have trouble.

The three adventurers arrived at the carved doors. The tower loomed before them, Dibella herself watching and judging. Maeve felt weak at the knees. The gods could see that she was bad. They knew she had done wrong. The girl could hide from the priestesses and from her friends and from the world, but the gods knew what she was. There was no escaping their wrath.

Cosnach marched right in, Fjotra besides him. Maeve followed, mouth drying out like the soil in the summer.

“We found your Sybil,” he announced to Senna.

“I see that you have found help, child,” the priestess locked eyes with Maeve, singling out the unworthy right away “Was your journey perilous?”

“They rescued me from the forsworn,” Fjotra recounted.

“Truly? Then you have shown great valor in the face of adversity,” Senna blinked in shock.

“Follow me, Sybil, I shall guide you to the inner sanctum,” another faithful piped up.

The two women left through another set of doors, which held the secrets of the faith within their mysterious depths. Maeve realized she would never see Fjotra again. There hadn’t even been a farewell. Of course, the traveler was unworthy, but still, what if the Sybil wanted to say goodbye? What if Fjotra wanted to stay with her mom and dad? Did the Temple really have to take her away?

Maeve stopped her bad thoughts before they could become any more heretical.

“Will we be rewarded for our service to Dibella?” Cosnach demanded “I nearly lost my life to the barbarians!”

“Prostrate yourselves before the altar and She will bestow her blessings upon you,” the priestess intoned.

The girl thought that Enmon ought to be blessed too, because _he_ had fought the briarheart, but dared not say a thing. She was unworthy anyway.

Maeve sat down besides the altar, gaze downcast. A cold clump grew within her stomach. Her wrongness would be exposed to everyone and she would be discarded. The child didn’t even know any prayers. Orla must’ve taught her _something,_ but of course, she couldn’t remember.

Light shone down onto the two adventurers from one of the stained-glass windows. Maeve was bathed in an ethereal pinkish hue, like the dawn clouds, like precious gems, like the twilight sky. Dibella was the beauty in everyone, the passion of a lover, an artist, a warrior. She could tell the wicked from the pure, the serene from the blasphemous and she did not reject Maeve.

The girl wondered if she was supposed to feel any different, but that hardly mattered – she was chosen. She was _worthy._


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I saw that I had a comment and wrote this chapter in its entirety. Took me about 30 minutes.

“You may stand now,” Senna announced to Dibella’s new chosen.

“What’s this blessing do?” Cosnach asked grumpily. Maeve wondered why he was in a bad mood – maybe he hadn’t slept well?

“That is for you to figure out,” the priestess offered guidance “The Divines aid us in mysterious ways.”

Cosnach didn’t seem satisfied with the answer, but said nothing else.

“And this is for you,” Senna handed Maeve a sealed letter and a coin purse “The money is for a carriage ride. Don’t spend it. The letter is for Mrs. Far-Shield. Ask around Riften for Haelga’s Bunkhouse if you get lost.”

“Thank you,” the girl took the items with shaking hands.

Never before had she held so many septims! And she could travel by carriage, without getting tired and blistering her feet. She could sit and watch all of Skyrim pass her by. She would travel like a _noble._ Like the rich and important people who made laws and lived in mansions and-

“Why is she getting paid?” Cosnach complained “I did all the work!”

Maeve flinched. Her friend needed money too, maybe more than she did. Stupid greedy Maeve, fantasizing about septims.

“Faith is not rewarded with material goods,” Senna refused “I gave Maeve twenty septims so she could travel to her new home, as she has recently been orphaned.”

_But my mom and dad are still alive!_ Maeve wanted to say, but kept her mouth shut.

“Very well then,” the porter grumbled “Come on, kid, I’ll take you to the stables.”

He took the girl by the shoulder and nudged her towards the door.

“Bye, Senna!” the youngster turned, waving “May the Nine Divines watch over you.”

“Eight Divines,” Senna corrected “Have faith, child.”

The two adventurers walked out into the empty streets. The noise of a bustling marketplace could be heard below, a dozen different merchants fighting over customers, shouting slogans and singing praises from their stalls, each like a tiny house, kitted out with various goods. The girl felt a stinging in her heart at the thought of leaving her companion behind. Would she ever see him again? Would she ever return to Markarth?

Cosnach guided Maeve down the endless stairs, descending into dimly-lit alleyways and well-trodden dirt paths. The air smelled of soot and smoke rose from the smelters. The girl had never been to the mines before – though weren’t the stables the other way?

Cosnach stopped, turning on his heels and snatched the coin purse right out of Maeve’s hands.

“H-hey! It’s mine!” she cried “Give it back!”

“Sorry, kid, but I don’t think so,” the drunkard said gruffly “I prefer getting paid for my work.”

Maeve lunged at him. She had traveled all this time with a criminal! A thief! And he just _betrayed_ her for some coin? After everything they had been through?

Cosnach kicked her in the gut. He was so alike Hewnon, down to the way he stared at the girl from above. But Maeve wasn’t about to stand and take it like before. As the porter turned to run, she balled her fist and hit him in the back.

Cosnach turned, scowling like Hewnon did before starting to shout. Ice jolted through Maeve’s chest, making her steps falter, but she regained her footing and reached for the coin purse hanging from the thief’s fist.

He pushed the girl into the mud and disappeared down a dingy alley, only the patter of footfalls on stone as a reminder that he’d ever been there.

Maeve sniffled, plucking dirt off the letter. The kindness Senna had done for her was now pointless. Of course it was. She was a bad child – it was about time justice caught up to her. She had been blessed by Dibella, so her wealth had been taken away. She didn’t deserve so many nice things anyway.

The girl sat, listening to the smelter overseer shout at his workers. She hadn’t even seen that Cosnach was bad. Of course she hadn’t, she was stupid and naive. Anyone could dupe her. And now she would be stuck in this stupid stone city, with the stupid letter she could never deliver and the stupid reachmen who were all killers and thieves. Forever.


	17. Chapter 17

Maeve dragged herself across the dirt roads of Markarth’s underbelly, the foundations of carven stone houses rising around her, growing towards the sun like trees. The girl wondered why the reachmen never built on what the dwarves had created thousands of years ago. Rocks had surely gone out of fashion centuries before. The child ascended a set of dilapidated stairs, stepping over cracked stone and dulled brass. Beggars and lowlives moved across the dark paths, no light reaching them through the canopy of buildings. The workers who lived amongst the city’s foundations were gaunt and filthy, scurrying between the houses like ghosts.

Maeve climbed out into the sunlight, the dredges of society behind her. She never wanted to be around those sad and miserable people ever again. Good thing she had a choice. The girl sighed, feeling her stomach grumble. The letter inside her shirt chafed against her skin. What could she do? She couldn’t run back to the priestesses, she wasn’t greedy. No, she had to find twenty septims on her own. How? Who would pay her, a failure? It served her right, being penniless on the streets, after she had trusted Cosnach. The child wouldn’t beg on the streets, she wasn’t sick or old. She could work just fine.

Who would take her to work for them, though? She was just some unworthy child whose parents didn’t want her anymore. But she was blessed by Dibella! She wasn’t all bad, she could improve, do better, prove herself worthy of Orla and Hewnon.

The girl straightened her posture. No one would hire her if she looked like a sickly lowlife. The child skipped across the stone, passing the rich, the poor and the guards. Maybe one of them could help her track down Cosnach? But she was a little liar, nobody would believe her. And anyway, maybe Cosnach deserved to have the money more than she did. He was blessed too.

The adventurer ducked under a stone bridge and caught sight of a shop. Merchants always had things to do. The girl entered the shop, the smell of drying plants and brewing potions wafting out of the door. Maeve blinked, stifling a cough and proceeded to the counter.

“Which of my stock may I offer you?” the kindly old vendor looked down at the child.

On second thought, the lady looked like a forsworn witch, ready to whisk away foolish little girls . . .

“I’m looking for work,” the youngster puffed out her chest, deciding she was too old for the reachwoman’s tricks “Maeve Black-Skeever, adventurer and apprentice wizard, at your service.”

“Oh the confidence of youth,” the woman laughed “I’m Bothela. Pleased to meet such an entrepreneur. Yes, I do have work for the likes of you.”

The girl was _famous_ too! People recognized that she was a real adventurer!

“Will I get paid?” Maeve jumped up on her heels.

“Now, now, I haven’t even given you a task yet,” Bothela shut her down.

“Oh, um, I mean, what is it I must do?” the girl tried again.

“You must deliver a potion to the Jarl’s steward, Raerek,” the old lady detailed her plot “You can find him visiting the Shrine of Talos in the evenings. Approach him while he’s out in the city. He’s an old man with a fur cloak that bears the emblem of Markarth.”

“Yes, ma’am!” the girl carefully took the potion “Will I get paid?”

“I’m sure the steward will be more than willing to give you something for your troubles,” Bothela assured her “Now off you go, it’s nearly sundown!”

The child walked out, holding the potion close to her chest. To think that she would be meeting the steward of Markarth! The sky was covered in darkening clouds, the towers cast long shadows over the cobblestone. Maeve found the shrine without incident. It seemed to be situated in the basement of the Temple. The girl giggled – it was as if Talos was less awesome of a god than Dibella.

Maeve patted her ninja-blade. She hadn’t even thought of drawing it on Cosnach. Guess it was just another example of her stupidity.

Soon enough, a man in a flowing cape emblazoned with the Ram of Markarth approached, a guard not far behind him. He paused at the sight of the girl, gaze shifting to her sword.

“Are you the steward? I have a delivery for you,” the child announced.

“You have the right man,” said Raerek and took the potion offered his way “Why, erm, thank you. Here’s for your troubles.”

He handed Maeve twelve septims and moved past. The guard glared at the girl before following. Maeve didn’t dare ask for more. She would have to find more work, and soon, because most shops closed after sunset.

The girl skipped to the market, the sword no longer getting in the way of her strides like before. She had learned a lot. Soon she’d become a mercenary and never need to do other people’s errands to get by.

The marketplace had quieted down, few shoppers gliding between the stalls, ogling the produce. The meat seller was engaged in lively discussion with a beggar, the cloth merchant packing up her stall.

Maeve approached the jeweler, a redguard woman.

“Anything you need?” she asked, noticing the curious child from afar.

“I’m looking for work,” the girl declared, standing tall and proud.

“I don’t even know you,” the woman glared “but I _do_ have a ring to deliver. Bring this to the court wizard, Calcelmo. You lose it, I’m telling the guards and you’ll be rotting in the mine before they even tell your parents.”

“My parents don’t want me anyway,” Maeve squeaked, taking the ring.

“The worse for you,” the silversmith shrugged “Now, get going and report back before I close the stall.”

“Yes, ma’am!” the girl scampered away, clutching the ring in her fist.

She ran across the ramps and skipped over the stairs, right up to the Keep. It loomed over Maeve, reminding her how insignificant she truly was compared to the rich and powerful. Its halls were dark, lit only by dwarven torches the size of her head. No wonder they didn’t have enough of them.

The guards, standing still like statues, glanced suspiciously her way as Maeve moved towards the gathering of brass sculptures. There she found two elves in wizard robes, looking the same. Oh, nevermind – one had a beard. _That_ was the court mage, then.

“I have a delivery for you, sir,” Maeve approached him without fright.

“What? Again? I told you, I’m not interested in any Abecean Shrews, nor did I _ever_ order them!” Calcelmo exploded in a rage “Take your stock back to the postal service or I will- ah, it’s not those salesmen. Please excuse my temper. What do you bring?”

“I-I was ordered to deliver this-this ring,” the girl offered the bauble.

“Ah yes,” the sorcerer examined it “Kerah is truly a master of her craft. Here, for your troubles.”

He gave Maeve thirteen septims, five more than she needed.

“You can have those back,” the child handed him the extra coins “I don’t need that many.”

“Kids these days,” Calcelmo grumbled, but took the money.

Maeve smiled, skipping back across the ancient tunnels. Now she was gonna go to Riften and nothing would stop her!

“Nice sword you have there,” a tall elf in a green coat appeared on her path, flanked by two armored figures “Say, where did you get it?”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since there's a very obvious shrine of Talos in Markarth and the Steward himself is among the faithful, this means that Ondolemar is lazy, incompetent, stupid, or a saboteur. Maybe even all of the above.

“I found the sword in a cave,” the girl declared, while being led away by the strange green-robed elf “Near Whiterun.”

“Of course, of course,” the man nodded “And who did the sword belong to?”

“A man named Bolar,” Maeve stopped and produced the writ from her belt “He wrote this before he died.”

“A Blade,” the wizard smiled, sharp white teeth glinting in the dark Keep “Good riddance. Tell me, which of the gods do you worship?”

The child paused. Her mother and father never really taught her to pray (or maybe she had just forgotten all about it, as usual) . . . but she was chosen by Dibella!

“I worship Dibella!” the girl decided “My mom’s a priestess at the Temple.”

“And have you ever been to the Shrine of Talos?” the man continued.

“Just now,” Maeve recalled “I delivered a potion to the Steward! But I didn’t go in. Maybe I should? I wonder what’s inside . . .”

The elf continued grinning and laced his fingers together. His two bodyguards shared a glance.

Light reflected off of their armor. The girl could now guess they were Thalmor – angry elves who didn’t like Talos because he was better than them and all elves needed to feel superior. But she didn’t pray to Talos so she was fine.

“Curiosity leads so many astray,” the elf concluded his musings “Take care that it does not lead you down a dark path. And remember, Talos was just a man. He is dead now and cannot hear your prayers.”

“Uh-huh, I only pray to Dibella,” the girl nodded “Can I go now? I can’t miss my carriage.”

The elf waved her off, frowning dourly, and Maeve tumbled out of the Keep and down the endless stairways. First things first – she had to tell the jeweler that she’d given the ring to the court mage. The jeweler was scary. Maeve didn’t want to make her angry. Maybe she would hit or shove like Hewnon? No, probably not. She wasn’t family.

By the time Maeve had gotten to the market, the sun had set, its last crimson rays shimmering right above the horizon. The stalls were closed, unsold wares stored away. The girl thought she could see the saleswoman’s shadowy figure ducking behind a corner, but when she ran after it, the alley was empty.

As always, she was late. Stupid Maeve who couldn’t keep her word. Why did those elves need to stop her? Of course, it was her fault they did. Maybe picking up random swords from ruins was a bad idea. Maybe she ought to have thought before she stole some dead guy’s belongings. No bad deed went unpunished, no crime unreported. Erik said corpse-looters were called marauders. The girl was a marauder, like some bandit.

Maeve slumped tiredly. What could she do now? Wait until morning and miss the last carriage? No, she had to go. She was a failure anyway. The gods would make her pay for what she had done anyway.

The child ran out of the city’s gate and down the stone steps, darkness gathering in the east. The last carriage of the day – possibly the week – stood next to the stables, the driver arguing with a barefoot miner. The girl approached and stood in line behind the man, picking up a few profanities for later use. Britte liked to compete who could say the worst word and now Maeve could finally one-up her!

The carriage driver let out some more insults and sent the local packing. Maeve offered her payment – was it _really_ enough? – and the man gestured at the seats. The ones in the back were already taken. How unfair. Maeve sat down in the front, trying to take up as little space as possible. If she was greedy, she could get kicked out!

The driver took the reins and the rickety carriage took off, jolting on the uneven road. Maeve looked over her fellow travelers – a woman with her son, a poor merchant who couldn’t afford her own caravan and a wizard. His golden robes were stained with something unidentifiable, tattered from years of use.

The girl straightened herself – it wasn’t any day when two sorcerers were stranded on the same carriage! Maybe she could learn something from him?

“Hey there!” she leaned towards him “Are you a real wizard? Me too! Which of the schools of magic do you prefer? Can you make fireballs?”

“Sure, let me just burn down that house over there,” the man gestured, smirking “Clearly, you’re such an _expert_ in magic, you even know that it’s divided into schools! Apple for effort, but I don’t do tutoring, I’m a _mercenary_. And I don’t have time to chitchat with little kids.”

“I’m not _that_ little. I could be a mercenary too, when I grow up,” Maeve smiled “I’m already an adventurer! I saved the Sybil of Dibella from the forsworn.”

“How’d that go down?” he raised his eyebrows “Did you convince those ferocious natives to stand down with the power of friendship?”

“Well, not really,” the girl began explaining “Um, so one of the priestesses told me to deliver a letter . . .”

At some point during the extremely lively retelling of the tale, the mother covered her son’s ears, to which he loudly complained, like a cicada buzzing in the summer evening. Maeve thought the background noise added authenticity to the tale. By the time the girl finished, the traveling saleswoman was doubled over in laughter and the wizard’s smirk was slightly more joyous than smug.

“And here I thought guarding Sleaze Once-Rich was interesting,” he began recounting a tale of his own “Oh, he thought himself so important, like he licked the Jarl’s own backside or something. But of course, he couldn’t hire any actual guards, just me. So, while I was carrying all his stuff – a terrible waste of my arcane abilities, might I add – an assassin appeared out of nowhere . . .”

After that tale was told, the boy was throwing a full-on tantrum, demanding to hear the story.

“Quiet, you damn wizards! Skyrim was fine until you came along,” the carriage driver shouted.

Maeve hid her head between her shoulders. The wizard sighed in exasperation and made a rude gesture.

“The people are afraid of a little girl, how quaint. Let’s make small-talk then,” he rolled his eyes “What spell did you learn first?”

“Candlelight,” Maeve remembered “Can it be made into a fireball?”

“They work differently,” the man disagreed “Blinding someone, on the other hand . . . oh, no one’s done it before, but with my mastery of the arcane, that won’t be for long!”

The other three passengers looked intensely uncomfortable. The reaction of the driver was hard to gauge, since he wasn’t facing them.

“But what’s your name? I’m Maeve,” the girl introduced herself.

“Marcurio,” he answered “The best wizard money can buy. Those folks at Winterhold aren’t for hire, and they’re getting tired of people who ask. Who knows, maybe the waters around the College contain more corpses than you would expect from shipwrecks alone?”

“Yeah, it sounds like a bad place to study,” Maeve agreed.

The mother, son, carriage driver and merchant listened to the fun exploration of Skyrim’s educational opportunities all night.


	19. Chapter 19

The carriage full of misfits and mages arrived in Riften after two days. The city was shrouded in mist, dirt-colored walls rising like hills of mud. Birch and aspen trees jutted out of the ground, bright orange leaves fluttering in a slight breeze. Autumn in Rorikstead was never this colorful. The grass simply wilted and then the snow came down.

“Welcome to Skyrim’s skeeziest locale,” Marcurio declared, dramatically spreading his arms wide “Come at me, people of Riften! I haven’t caught a pickpocket by the fingers in twelve whole days!”

The guard standing nearby snorted with derision.

“Yeah, Riften is nice,” Maeve agreed with the older (and cooler) wizard “Uh, I’m coming, people of Riften! Fear my, um, great magical prowess!”

The guard sighed wearily. He probably rolled his eyes too, but the helmet hid everything. The girl thought guards looked a little like drawings of dwarven automata in books.

“Hello there, kiddo,” the man by the gate greeted her “To enter this old and hallowed city, you must pay the visitor’s tax.”

“Why’s that?” the child asked, fidgeting with her hands.

“For the privilege of entering the city,” he explained “What’s it matter? A hundred gold, pay up.”

“A proud nord, reduced to extorting children for a living,” Marcurio sneered “This isn’t the people who produced the great barrows and fortresses of old, no, this new people is composed of thieves, milk-drinkers and morons.”

“Fine, keep your voice down, _wizard_ ,” the guard relented “Let me unlock the gate for you two.”

“Thanks, Marcurio,” Maeve said sheepishly, ducking her head and smiling like an idiot.

To think that the guard was trying to steal from her the hard-earned money that she didn’t even have! And he would’ve succeeded, just like Cosnach had! She really had to become more, uh, assertive? Paranoid? No, observant! Yes, she had to become more observant and observe more people more carefully, so no one could ever steal from her!

“Always ready to help out random children for free,” Marcurio smiled “It’s not like I have rent to pay or anything, oh no, I just have so much free time on my hands, I simply must aid every old lady and little girl within five miles!”

“What’s rent?” the girl asked.

“A genius, I see,” the cool wizard dude smirked.

“Yup! Jouane says I’m smart for my age,” Maeve beamed at him “See you around.”

“That would be _most appreciated_ ,” Marcurio said and vanished abruptly. So much for becoming more observant. Stupid Maeve, who couldn’t even do what she set out to, much less what other people told her to!

The child clutched her letter tight in one hand, regarding the wooden buildings before her. If she squinted, she could make out each individual log and board!

Mist drifted between the houses, shrouding in a pale veil. Maeve turned her head this way and that way, trying to figure out where to go. She didn’t want to come up to the guards – they seemed scary. And very sleazy, because one had already tried to steal from her. Maybe the girl could ask a nice-looking passerby?

“Excuse me, ma’am, where is Haelga’s Bunkhouse?” the child asked an altmer in a red shawl.

“Fourth house from the gate, the one with the oaken door,” the lady pointed.

“Thanks, bye!” Maeve waved and scampered away. She should’ve found the Bunkhouse herself, it was so easy.

The door was truly massive and the girl stood before it for a while, catching her breath. It wasn’t because she felt dread or anything like that! No, she was just a little winded. She was no coward. She had fought the evil reachmen, so Britte could never call her a coward again!

_Britte would love all my stories,_ Maeve thought, and there was a sudden tightness in her throat a _nd she wouldn’t call me a bookworm for telling them. But I’ll never see her again._

Maeve knocked, and found that the door was open. She stepped into a respectable establishment which looked more like an inn than  a home.

“You lost?” the lady behind the counter asked, her frown seeming to be etched into her face.

M aeve offered her letter, glancing down in supplication.  The woman skimmed over it, sighing thunderously.

“Another good-for-nothing kiddie dropped on my lap,” the local glared at the child “I’m Haelga and this is my bunkhouse. You will clean the floors, wash the dishes, change the bedsheets and be nice to the patrons. I might still have something left for you to eat in the evening, if that pig Svana hasn’t eaten all the supplies.”

T he girl wanted to ask who Svana was, but Haelga reminded her too much of mom and so she remained silent, standing in the middle of the empty room.  No matter how many adventures she  went on, she was still a  small, useless child who had to grovel at the feet of everyone more worthy.

“SVANA!” the establishment’s patron shouted “GET DOWN HERE!”

“Yes, aunt,” a young woman emerged from one of the many rooms.

“Senna foist a brat on me as repayment for her favor, no doubt one of her accidents,” Haelga explained “Show her the ropes.”

“Her _favor,_ how could I have forgotten?” Svana spat, but as soon as she looked at Maeve, her eyes softened.

“And sell that dreadful sword of hers. I bet it could fetch us a pretty penny,” the businesswoman commanded.

“Yes, aunt,” the dutiful niece intoned.

Because of course everything Maeve had, she had to give away. Bye-bye epic ninja-blade. Bye-bye adventure. Hello servitude and dirty laundry.


	20. Chapter 20

The marketplace was just over a bridge from the Bunkhouse, a curving wooden ramp over still water. Maeve hated it. She hated everything around it, and all the city of Riften and Senna who sent her to this horrible place. Every good warrior needed a sword, even if the girl was more of a wizard.

No, no, she was overreacting. Stupid ungrateful Maeve, who was being offered a hearth and home after she ran off into the night, yet still found time to complain.

“Where did you find that sword?” Svana asked, her voice seeming muted, as if coming through a woolen sheet.

“In a cave. It was the biggest, most beautiful cave I’ve ever seen,” the child described “um, I’ve never seen any other cave, but I bet they aren’t as beautiful.”

“Is it very important to you?” the woman wondered.

“My first sword,” Maeve explained “I used it to fight off the forsworn and rescue the Sybil of Dibella! Don’t take it away from me!”

“I’m sure you’ll find another sword,” the local consoled.

“No, this is a special ninja-blade!” the kid protested “It belonged to Bolar, a Blade who was slain by the Thalmor! I found his last writ next to it.”

She showed Svana the paper. It was yellowed with age and distorted from rain, but readable enough.

The woman was very silent for a moment, chewing her lip.

“I think we don’t have to sell it. There’s a yard behind the bunkhouse, bury the sword there. You won’t tell, right?” Svana decided.

Maeve nodded, eagerly yanking the scabbard off her belt. She would be burying treasure, right under the nose of her enemy! Well, no, Haelga was no enemy, she was just very stern and short for money. Just like mom. She was always short for money too! The Bunkhouse felt more and more like home.

The two young ladies daintily proceeded out of the marketplace, lowering themselves to dig in the mud. Maeve placed her sword into the dirt, but kept the note in her belt. She didn’t want the last words of such a warrior to rot. The girl watched the blade be swallowed by the dirt, feeling herself to be the bearer of a great legacy, like she had to do Bolar proud and wield his blade for good. Like it was her responsibility to never let his life and death be forgotten. Maeve observed the disturbed soil, a heavy sensation in her chest. Nobody else would ever tell Bolar’s story, and she didn’t even know most of it.

“Come now,” Svana beckoned “the bedsheets need washing. There’s a tub in the first floor storeroom.”

“Uh-huh,” Maeve lifted herself from the ground “Do I get the water from the canal?”

“Everyone does,” the local shrugged, then added offhandedly “it’s a pity your sword wasn’t even worth a rusty septim.”

The child blinked. But the ninja-blade- “Yeah, _I_ think it could’ve brought a fortune.”

They both giggled into their palms.


	21. Chapter 21

Maeve finished stuffing straw in the last mattress and looked around victoriously. She’d made all the beds before the patrons, er, workers had come upstairs! Haelga was very adamant that her fine establishment was not an inn. The girl listened to the incessant moaning and inappropriate words coming from below. The Bunkhouse had every attribute of a tavern, that was for sure. Even a whore. Haelga seemed to be an avid practitioner of the Dibellan Arts, just like Orla. Maeve had no idea why the proprietor _(see, Britte? Knowing long fancy words doesn’t mean I can’t_ _fight_ _!)_ couldn’t accept the truth.

The girl skipped downstairs, just in time to witness Svana being touched on the behind by a drunk tenant. The woman shouted at him and batted his calloused hand away. Strange. In Rorikstead’s inn, men used to touch Orla like that all the time and she never got mad, just laughed. Maybe Maeve would understand better once she grew up. Or maybe she wouldn’t, because nobody touched hideous hags with black eyes and vampire-pale skin, not even Lemkil when he was drunk.

Sometimes, Maeve would pretend that her real father was a traveling warrior, or a secret hero, and that he would someday come and whisk her away to a life of adventure. But thinking that was bad, because her dad was Hewnon. Even if she did have evil black eyes. Well, her eyes weren’t that evil after all, because Dibella valued beauty and she had blessed the girl. That had to be worth something, right?

The girl took up the bucket next to the door and strutted out. The sky was overcast, wind shuffling around dying autumn leaves. The citizens huddled inward, rushing past in fluttering gray and brown cloaks. Thankfully, the water in the canal had yet to freeze. Maeve filled up a bucket and dragged it up the creaking stairs next to the marketplace.

There, she found Marcurio, leaning heavily against the railing. The man stared intently at the water, a deep crease in his brow.

“Hi! I didn’t think I’d see you again!” Maeve set the bucket down and ran to him “Do you like Riften? I think it’s very damp and the houses all look the same, but is it a good place for wizards? Anyone selling cool spells?”

“The only good place for a wizard is away from Skyrim,” Marcurio coughed “Yeah, this city is wet as Lake Rumare, how observant of you.”

The girl smiled to herself, feeling a great sense of accomplishment that naturally came with being right. Then she realized she had no idea what a “rumare” was.

“What lake?” Maeve frowned, utterly puzzled.

“Oh gods,” the mage sighed deeply “The big pond around the Imperial City. I assume you are not so plebeian as to not know where _that_ is.”

“Of course I know where the Imperium- Imperial City is,” the child declared, though she didn’t quite have the courage to inquire what exactly constituted a plebeian “You look sad. Did something happen?”

“Sad? Ha. No, I am strongly incensed at the innkeeper,” Marcurio smirked bitterly “Who had the audacity to kick me out because I may or may not have gotten into a bar brawl. She didn’t even see anything!”

“Okay,” Maeve nodded “But did you win?”

“I lost only because I was feeling merciful and refrained from using sorcery to grin my opponent into a fine wall ornament!” the man declared “No, I did not win. _This_ time.”

The girl bobbed her head up and down.

A hush fell over the two, broken only by the autumn wind and the faraway passersby.

“How’s your stay at the Bunkhouse?” Marcurio shattered the silence “I hope the tenants there are less rowdy than the drunken louts I usually see debating politics with the aid of fists and sobbing into the tankard over their lot in life.”

“Haelga more than makes up for it with the noise in the evenings,” Maeve shared “She’s doing the Dibellan Arts, just like my mom used to in the tavern. But now mom is a real priestess at the temple! You know, in Markarth?”

“I was in Markarth literally three weeks ago, how could I have missed the temple?” the wizard snorted “So, you say Haelga practices the Arts? . . . wait. That’s illegal.”

“She’s a _criminal?!”_ the child gasped, throwing her hands in the air “But what’s wrong with whores? My mom did that all the time and everyone was happier for it! Did . . . did my mom do evil?!”

“The Dibellan Arts are only forbidden in the Rift,” Marcurio sighed “I’ll take a wild stab in the dark and say your mother isn’t from here.”

“No, she’s from Rorikstead. How’d you know?” Maeve narrowed her eyes. She heard it made her seem more intimidating.

“Since you don’t know about Riften’s law – or what the Black-Briars wipe their asses with, at this point – you are clearly not a local,” the man exposited.

“Who are the Black-Briars?” the girl wondered.

“Biggest crime family in town. Stay well away from any of their dealings, or you’ll end up a nice crunchy skeever snack somewhere in the sewers,” Marcurio advised.

“Oh,” said Maeve, unsure whether to fear for her life or bring justice to the city. Surely her hidden ninja-blade could set things right in this wretched hive?

“Look at the two of us, wasting time in idle chitchat,” the sorcerer looked to his feet “See you around. I really need to buy those potions in bulk . . .”

“Bye, Marcurio!” the youth waved, taking up her bucket.

She strutted back to the Bunkhouse, bucket bobbing at her side. After such an exciting conversation, the wind seemed less frigid, the overcast sky less bleak and the very cold itself less biting. All Maeve needed for the day to be the best ever was the far corner of innkeeper Mralki’s barn – Sissel reading from a storybook, Britte singing profane songs the adults never wanted to share, Erik waving around his practice sword. What were they doing now, Maeve wondered. She hoped they were happy. She hoped they had fun . . . fun she would never join.

The girl stepped inside the workhouse, dragging the bucket behind her.

“Finally, I thought I’d have to dig up your corpse from the Ratway,” Haelga sneered as she passed the child by “Useless skeever, took her half an hour to fetch some water. It’s like a young Svana all over again.”

Maeve bent down and began scrubbing the floor. Strangely enough, the Bunkhouse seemed a dozen times colder than the late autumn weather.


	22. Chapter 22

“Svana! What did I tell you about washing the linen?!” Haelga shouted “By the gods, it’s all ruined!”

“Well, maybe if _you_ bought the cleaning potion, maybe then the cloth wouldn’t be spotty,” the younger woman spat “Boo-hoo, ruined! Like the patrons would even notice!”

“If only I had an assistant who actually cared about the business,” Haelga sighed demonstratively.

“Like you don’t leave all the housekeeping to me while you roll around with all those men,” Svana rolled her eyes.

“Yeah! The Dibellan Arts are a crime here,” Maeve piped up, eager to share her knowledge of the world.

“ _Quiet!”_ the woman turned to the girl “You haven’t even rolled a single barrel to the basement, talk about a useless lout! If this goes on, I’ll throw you to the streets, Senna’s favor be damned!”

Maeve shut her mouth and took up another barrel. Why did she even think it was a good idea, to step up for her friend? The last time she did that, Lemkil hit her with a pitchfork. Stupid little Maeve, thinking she had something important to say. Stupid little Maeve who was going to get thrown to the street. There was a bitter taste on her tongue. She was living with a criminal, a criminal who was always so mean to Svana. Maeve read enough books about gallant thieves and noble rebels to know that Haelga was not among those lawbreakers.

The girl rolled the barrel of salted fish to its rightful place in the basement, arms numb from the strain. Her head was numb too, but in a different way, Maeve unable to think of anything else but the magnitude of her mistake. Gods, why was she always so dumb? She heard a commotion behind her and turned to stare as Svana entered, pushing a barrel in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” said Maeve, because apologizing to Haelga was much scarier. Smoothing things over with Svana seemed a lot more appealing. Surely the maidservant could smooth things over with her aunt? “For, um, saying things when I’m not supposed to.”

“It’s fine, really,” Svana shook her head “My aunt is just an asshole.”

At that,  the girl giggled.

“But you’re right, of course,” the woman continued “The Arts _are_ a crime here.”

“Why don’t you do something about it?” Maeve looked up at her.

Svana looked away, chewing on her lip. “It’s not that simple. If the guards found out, they’d run Haelga out of town. I . . . don’t really want that to happen.”

“Makes sense,” the girl nodded. After all, Maeve’s parents loved her even when they hit her and screamed at her. Haelga and Svana loved each other too.

“But I fear that with my aunt’s . . . lack of restraint, it’s only a matter of time until someone reports her,” Svana put her hands together “I- are you sneaky in any way?”

“Kinda?” Maeve shrugged “When we played hide and seek, Britte could never catch me!”

“Alright,” the woman nodded, glancing at the ceiling in thought “I might have a plan to stop my aunt’s bad habit. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise,” said the child.

No way! She was embarking on a real  _secret mission!_ Maeve really was an awesome hero, wasn’t she?


	23. Chapter 23

“When I was a young lad, I was quite taken with horse-riding,” Hofgrir reminisced “Ah, those were the days . . .”

Behind him, Maeve dutifully searched through his nightstand’s drawers.  _Hey, it’s not theft if it’s for a good cause!_

“I see,” Svana nodded.

“Anyway, one day I got a little smashed with the lads,” he continued “And I thought to mount a young colt one of my friends had bought.”

_Gotcha!_ Maeve spied a shiny blue Mark of Dibella in the depth of the drawer.

“Kid, you listenin’ over there?” Hofgrir peered in her general direction. The girl scrambled away from the drawer, eyes wide.

“Don’t be rude, Maeve,” Svana chided her, stepping between the man and his nightstand “You’ll miss out on the whole story!”

“But I was-” the child began, then realized that her mission was supposed to be a secret “Sorry, mister. I’m listening now.”

“Ah yes. As I was sayin’, I thought t’was a good idea to take a ride ‘cross the lakeshore,” Hofgrir continued his no doubt super exciting and fascinating tale. Maeve wasn’t listening, as she lifted the Mark of Dibella into the pocket of her pants. _Hey, it’s not lying if it’s for a good cause!_

The shiny blue stone safely in her pocket, the girl continued nodding along to Hofgrir’s retelling of that time when he killed a horse. It was really gross and Maeve felt bad for everyone who had to hear of _that,_ including herself. Especially herself. Then she remembered that she was a bad girl who deserved to suffer and stopped feeling self-pity.

The ~~evil deed~~ heroic intervention done, Svana and Maeve confined themselves within the city walls once more. The next target of their ~~extortion spree~~ heroic actions was Bolli, who ran the fishery. What constituted a “fishery” and not a lake the girl didn’t know, but Lake Honrich sure seemed impressive, since it wasn’t _just_ a lake but a whole fishery.

They ~~cornered~~ met up with the fisherman in a dark alley, buildings of dark wood hanging overhead on both sides, forming a canopy to blot out every ray of sunlight.

“Well hello there, ladies,” Bolli waved to them as they rapidly and inevitably approached “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I would like the Mark of Dibella Haelga gave you last week,” Svana cut to business “I’m sure you don’t want to have anything so compromising in the first place.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” the fisherman protested “I love my good wife Drifa!”

“Haelga then, Drifa now?” Svana smirked “My, what would your _wife_ say?”

“Yeah! What _would_ she say?” Maeve piped up, eager to ~~extort~~ help out “Call you names, I bet!”

“But I didn’t . . .” the local held up his hands.

“Didn’t what?” the woman put a hand on her hip “I _live_ in the Bunkhouse, and I was right outside the door, _cleaning,_ while you and her had fun with horker tusks!”

Bolli retrieved a blue token from his belt pouch and slunk away in defeat. ~~Crime committed~~ mission accomplished.

“I’m not sure how to get the third mark,” Svana confessed as the two ladies walked down to the marketplace “It was given to Indaryn, who runs the Meadery in Black-Briars’ name. I don’t really know him well, and for all we know, he has the mark under his bed.”

“Does he have a house?” Maeve wondered.

“He lives on the top floor in the Meadery,” the taller one declared “and I have no idea how to get there.”

Maeve watched the late-autumn breeze toss around leaves, the air frigid and the sun peeking over clouds. Skeevers gnawed on a batch of rotten food, which the market-goers weren’t all that happy about. The animals were small and half-starved, easily fitting into any nook and cranny.

That gave Maeve an idea.


	24. Chapter 24

The skeever was small and thin, its bulk close to the ground, four little paws working in tandem to propel it to new sources of food. It was very hungry, its whiskers twitching with anticipation of an incoming meal. Its many fellow skeevers clustered around it, huddling to pick up any scraps left over from the overturned basket.

Then the skeever felt a presence. It was a tentative, careful presence, its enthusiasm restrained. The anticipation of something grand – something bigger than rotting meat or a stinking carcass – buzzed through the connection. The other skeevers felt it too, making them twitchy, uncertain of their next course of action.

It was all focused on a place. The smelling place, with little food and many inaccessible round boxes and nasty people who kicked and screamed. There was a treasure there – something that needed to be taken. Something that was needed.

The skeevers moved out, sniffing out the straightest path. Through the connection, they felt a mighty need for something that hid within the building. A mighty, guiding need that spurred them on like hunger, thirst or fear. They scurried into the building, squeezing in under the doors, sniffing out morsels of grain under the vats. People shrieked and kicked, but that was how they always were.

Every nook and cranny was thoroughly sniffed through, every ball of dust kicked and sifted through, until, on the final floor, besides a human’s furry nest was the shiny blue bauble. A skeever grasped it with its fangs and raced out, driven back to the place of origin. The humans were all too happy to see it go, shoving it and its kind further out.

The skeever hurried, prize in maw, hurried to deliver the shiny bauble to someone who needed it. Someone who sought it, commanding the animal with their mere presence. The driving force, the skeever’s master, took the bright blue stone in a pale hand and toppled from unsteady legs.

The control faded. The skeever sniffed the air and went in search of food, whatever had overcome it barely a memory.


	25. Chapter 25

There was a darkness over Maeve, a heavy blanket pressing onto her, sealing her eyes right shut. She was plastered into the ground below, malleable flesh fading into soft soil, a formless mass ebbing and flowing with a heartbeat.

“So, is there any reason why you’re standing next to the market with an unconscious child?” a voice poked through the languid dark. Maeve’s eyelids twitched, but they were too heavy to open. “Kidnapping gone wrong, perhaps?”

“What? No! She works for my aunt,” a woman protested, her shrill voice jolting through the girl’s torpor “She was trying to control the skeevers – and it worked – but then she fainted. Is that- does magical fatigue need a healer? Can you help?”

“I am an apprentice destruction wizard, not some discount medic,” he refused “It’s nothing serious. She’ll wake up in no time. Assuming she won’t die, of course.”

Maeve tried lifting her eyelids again, the darkness becoming something undesirable.

“There’s a risk of-?!”

“No, I’m just kidding. Clearly you know nothing of magic.” the man laughed.

“There’s nothing funny here,” the woman snapped.

Maeve rolled to the side, cracking her eyes open. The gray sky was blindingly bright and planks of the bridge dug into her back.

“Tried something ambitious, did you?” Marcurio chuckled “You’ll need a few more years to become a druid master of the wilds.”

“Hi!” Maeve chirped, trying to sit up “Why are you here?”

“I was passing by, fresh from a particularly _pleasant_ employment, when I happened upon my favorite junior wizard,” he smiled “And that lady over there. I’m told you know her.”

“Yup, that’s Svana Far-Shield,” the girl looked over at her. The woman had something blue in her hands, nervously interlacing her fingers. “Wait, am I really your favorite junior wizard? Thanks, Marcurio!”

That couldn’t be right. Stupid clumsy Maeve wasn’t anyone’s favorite. Even when Jouane Manette said he liked her, he always liked Sissel more.

“Oh, that’s just because you’re the youngest wizard I know,” the man explained “All others I’ve had the misfortune of coming across were old enough to be admitted into the College of Winterhold.”

Svana pursed her lips at the mention of the College, but didn’t say anything.

“Svana, do you have the, um-” the girl stopped herself before she could give away the secret. Stupid Maeve who couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

“Of course,” Svana nodded “Who could’ve thought skeevers were such great thieves- I mean scavengers?”

“Who indeed,” Marcurio smirked.

“Hey, uh, since we have all the, um, necessary things,” Maeve stumbled upright, glancing at Svana “Can I go, or do I have more work to do?”

“Oh no, you’re free for the day,” the woman smiled “Have fun with Jerkmancer here.”

“Technically, its Sarcasmancer, but I can’t expect a nord provincial to know the difference,” the man corrected her “I must admit I am somewhat curious as to what exactly happened between you and the skeever, kid. Although my expertise is vast and multifaceted, druids are somewhat rare outside of nature.”

Maeve waved Svana goodbye, steered closer to the marketplace (or, perhaps, tavern) by Marcurio. The woman departed, holding all three Marks of Dibella with a mildly satisfied expression.

“So if I can control animals, am I an Animancer?” she wondered, once again happy over coming across her new friend.

“Ha. I’m afraid that your magic is so obscure it is simply known as ‘where-did-that-bear-come-from-mancy’. The practitioners are known as druids and beastmasters, depending on whether they can control plants too,” he explained professionally “In the olden days of the Second Era, druids were known as Wardens, and additionally specialized in cryomancy. Ice magic, that is. I’ve been told nords are naturally proficient at that, but I’ve seen so few nord who have even two spells to rub together that there’s no way to know for sure.”

“I wonder if I could do that,” Maeve whispered.

“Well, I don’t specialize on such spells, but I might have a spellbook or two in the ole knapsack . . .” Marcurio took a more direct course to the inn “Of course, I don’t _need_ such frivolous crutches for amateur spellcasters, but the pictures are neat. Nothing like ancient nord iconography of the late Merethic Era, of course, but I have a deep appreciation for many forms of art.”

The girl smiled and followed him right into the dusty depths of the inn. Her new life wasn’t so bad – she _could_ make more friends than just Britte, Sissel and Erik! And Britte the big dummy said Maeve only had friends because there were so few kids in the village. Well, calling people dumb was a little rude, but Britte totally deserved that because she stole Maeve’s inkwell once – an unforgivable crime! Marcurio had his own inkwell and would _never_ do anything like that.


	26. Chapter 26

“Apparently, it is best to practice cryomancy with a readily-available chunk of ice,” Marcurio read from the book “No wonder nords are supposedly adept at this, given the weather.”

“What’s wrong with the weather? It’s not even winter yet!” Maeve furrowed her brows.

“Exactly,” he turned a page “While I prefer to specialize in more substantial schools of magic, I can create ice cubes with ease. Helps cool drinks – not that I would ever need to do that here.”

The wizard concentrated intensely, crystals of frost growing between his nails. Maeve watched, transfixed.

“. . . that’s not a cube,” she realized after the shards had finished growing.

“It’s an ice crystal, that enough for you?” Marcurio frowned, setting it on the table.

Oops. Stupid Maeve stupidly annoying all her friends. She glanced at the man from the corner of her eye, but he had already calmed down, gesturing for the child to try moving the ice. For some reason, he didn’t seem like he wanted to hit her.

Maeve put her hands on the piece of ice. If she knew some rudimentary fire spells to warm herself up, could she do the opposite and cool something? She focused on the ice, putting her hands over the cold lump. But no matter how hard she tried, the only thing she could do with the ice was melt it.

“I can’t do it,” the girl huffed, water dripping from her hands. Stupid Maeve who couldn’t learn the simplest of spells.

“Perhaps fire spells would suit you better, seeing as you can warm yourself,” Marcurio consoled her “Though I hardly see any reason for that, since there’s _apparently_ nothing wrong with the weather.”

“Yeah, I only use the spell to dry myself,” the child nodded.

The sounds of a commotion reached the two wizards from downstairs – people shouted, furniture was thrown, mugs clattered against walls and floors. It sounded like Hewnon whenever he came home after a long day. Marcurio leaped from his seat, spellbook left open, Maeve running after him.

“Guards! Guards!” the argonian inkeeper screeched.

“Kill him!” a patron roared, clearly too afraid to do the deed himself.

“Ratway scum!” another yelled after a retreating figure “Skin the thief!”

A rather short nord bounded out of the door, a burlap sack and a bow slung over his shoulders. Marcurio gave chase, rushing right past the guards who had barely moved from their posts. Maeve pattered behind him, trying to call nearby skeever dens to her aid.

The man swerved hard down a dark alley, Marcurio hot on his tail. Without warning, the thief whipped out his bow and shot an iron arrow at the sorcerer. Marcurio stumbled, the arrow nicking his bicep. By the time it took him to cast a small healing spell, the thief had already disappeared inside a tunnel by the canal.

Maeve, however, treading lightly like her parents had taught her with many smacks to the head, tiptoed into the tunnel behind him, opening the door so it wouldn’t creak.

“Here’s the loot,” the thief spoke to another person obscured by the shadows “I know it’s not much, but . . .”

“I dunno, Drahff,” a familiar voice answered “If the Guild knew what we were doin’, they’d skin us alive.”

She knew that voice _so well_ \- could it be-?

“Dad!” Maeve smiled, running forwards with open arms.

There were footsteps behind her, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was that she had found her father again, and she could make everything better, fix all the times she’d been a bad girl. Oh, he must’ve missed her so much!

Hewnon turned, his teeth bared in a snarl. Maeve hid her head, hoping he’d only hit her gently. After all, she had come back to him, and that’s all that mattered, right? Well, she ought to have searched harder for dad, and found him sooner, and-

Hewnon raised his mace and slammed it right into his daughter’s chest.

Maeve fell backwards, banging her head on the stone floor. Her ribs creaked when she tried to take a breath, her mouth full of something sticky. Hewnon stepped right over her, not sparing the girl a second glance. Dimly, she heard someone screaming her name. She had really been a terrible daughter, hadn’t she?

A terrible, no good child who deserved to get hit by a mace for her insolence.


	27. Obligatory Patriotic Update

The first time Maeve woke, she was wet, her clothes sticking to her sides. She was being carried. It jostled, and she cried out in pain when she tried to take a breath. She wanted her mommy, but mommy wasn’t here, was she? Maeve had been a bad girl, and mommy had left . . .

The second time Maeve woke, she was laying on something cold, and there was chatter – voices, exclamations all around her. Then there was a blinding golden light, and nothing at all.

The third time Maeve woke, a man was standing over her. She squinted up, but he wasn’t her dad. Dad had left her too, hadn’t he? Everyone left stupid, good-for-nothing Maeve.

“Do you want something to drink?” the man asked.

The girl nodded, and he hooked an arm under her neck to help her sit. It hurt a lot to move her chest, but Maeve knew only babies complained. Where had she fallen down this time? The man gave her a jug of water and she drank it so fast half of it spilled on her clothes.

“Clearly, caring for the injured _isn’t_ one of my many talents,” he muttered, wiping Maeve’s jaw. She didn’t understand why he would do that for her – surely she was old enough to clean up her own messes?

She glanced up at him – he had lots of dark hair just like dad, but his complexion was tan instead of pale, and he sounded much younger.

“Marcurio . . ?” Maeve whispered.

“Well, it’s not like I could just leave my favorite student alone at the healer’s,” he smiled.

“Favorite?” the girl bit her lip “Um, thanks!” She winced from a new stab of pain in her chest.

“Well, that’s because you’re my only student,” Marcurio laughed, gently lowering her onto the cold slab “I have a job today, but I promise I’ll come by when it’s done.”

“B-bye,” the child raised an arm, but found herself too weak to wave.

The fourth time Maeve woke, she was being prodded awake. She hissed and gasped from the sharp pain in her chest, standing with great difficulty. Black spots marred her sight, and she could not blink them away.

“Welcome to the Honorhall Orphanage,” an older woman said, shoving a broom into Maeve’s hands “You shall address me as Grelod the Kind. Here, you’ll earn your keep with fair work, so stop _loitering_ and go clean the room.”

The girl had to bend for the tiny broom to reach the floor, but the movement sent her reeling in pain, gasping and clutching her chest.

“ _Get to it,_ you lazy bum!” the headmistress slapped her, the impact jolting Maeve’s head to the side “Children these days . . .”


End file.
